


Amethyst Remembrance

by This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Auror Draco Malfoy, Brain Damage, Case Fic, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Healer Harry Potter, Healing, Holding Hands, I interpret Draco as ace in this, Identity Issues, Inappropriate Healer-Patient Relationship, Internal Conflict, M/M, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Most of the Story Happens in One Room. Oops?, Pensieves, Permanent Memory Loss, Potions, Slow Build, St. Mungo's is Underfunded and Healers are Overworked, emotions TM, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 08:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username/pseuds/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username
Summary: Draco wakes up in St. Mungo's with no memory of who he is or how he got there, unaware of even his own name. With 29 years of his life gone, he throws himself at the only thing he has left: the knowledge that someone inside the hospital is filtering potions into the hands of underground dealers.But Merlin knows Draco can't do this on his own, so if Harry Potter wants to be his healer—and just so happens to help solve the case along the way—well, Draco isn't going to sayno, is he?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 25
Collections: Very Drarry Summer Vibes 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughingd0g](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g/gifts).



> The beginnings of chapters 2-9 (possibly 10) are Draco’s own notes about various things. There are some graphic depictions of illness and mild gore, and I will appropriately warn at the beginning of each chapter so you know what's coming.
> 
> I have a long list of thank yous. [sunnyeclipses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyeclipses/pseuds/sunnyeclipses), you are a genius and a god-send. You're a killer alpha/beta. Thank you for all your help, I wouldn't have gotten this far without you. I also want to thank my brother for the read, as well as [eletriptan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eletriptan/pseuds/eletriptan) for helping me iron out some plot wrinkles! And a HUGE thank you to [Robaroo72](https://robaroo72.tumblr.com/), for doing the Harry sketches. (They'll be in chapter 6!) Much love to [triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil) for hosting this and being awesome!
> 
> Finally—Lep, I know I sort of ran away with your prompts, and I'm very sorry that it took me so long to do this, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless! This is the biggest project I've ever done, but I hope that it reads like I do this all the time. You deserve the best of all the words I could ever write and more. I hope that everyone else likes this as well. <3

.oOoOo.

I held a Jewel in my fingers—

And went to sleep—

The day was warm, and winds were prosy—

I said ”Twill keep’—

I woke—and chid my honest fingers,

The Gem was gone—

And now, an Amethyst remembrance

Is all I own

  
_An Amethyst Remembrance_ by Emily Dickinson

.oOoOo.


	2. The Janus-Thickey Ward

He wakes to the sound of calm murmuring, the sterile scent of stiff bed sheets, and bright sunlight that pulls him from the darkness of sleep. A sense of _wrongness_ brings him to full consciousness quickly, and a nagging thought that this has happened before.

His muscles tense up, wanting to reach for his bedside table on instinct, but he sucks in a slow breath instead, as he feels warm, friendly magic pass over him.

 _Diagnostic charms_ , his mind supplies eventually, but knowing only causes confusion to flood his mind.

He cracks an eyelid open, squinting up at a dark-haired witch in lime green robes through bleary eyes. She’s muttering spells under her breath, a clipboard and quill floating beside her, her wand moving in steady motions.

“Good morning,” she says, once she realizes he’s awake, seeming distracted by whatever the self-writing quill is scratching on the clipboard. Her eyes are tired and a little far away, but her smile-lines are deep, and he feels like he can trust her. She reminds him of… someone he can’t place, but he relaxes at the sight of her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice gentle as she tucks her wand inside her sleeve, and the clipboard disappears into thin air.

“Thirsty. And confused,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from the space the clipboard had been. He licks his cracked lips. “Where am I?”

The corners of her lips pull down slightly, but the frown dissipates quickly, replaced by a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay, love. You’re in St. Mungo’s. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

 _St. Mungo’s..?_ It sounds achingly familiar and, hoping the information will come back to him soon, he sits up as the witch hands him a glass of water. The coolness of it soothes his dry throat as he gulps eagerly, his mind clearing a little, but the confusion remains. The witch chuckles easily when he grips the empty glass to his chest like a lifeline.

He stares for a moment at the off-white curtains around his bed, trying to recall anything about what happened and why he’s here. He’s only able to conjure up hazy memories of hurriedly scrawling his name at the end of a short note, sending it off with an owl during a storm, and a grim-looking man in red.

He finds himself holding his breath as he thinks about the memories, trying to figure out what’s so wrong about them. A moment passes, then another and another. Suddenly, white fear hits him, throat tightening with the realization that he doesn’t recognize the name he’d written on the note. It has to be his _own_ name, doesn’t it?

After all, everyone is _someone_ , but now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t know a single thing about who he is.

Panic tightens around his lungs in a vice-like grip, but he somehow maintains his composure. He relaxes his grasp on the glass enough for his whitened knuckles to return to their original color.

“Love?” the witch prompts, a small, warm hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Pardon…” he asks, turning his head to meet her eyes, “but do you know who I am?”

o.O.o.O.o

Agnes is barking about something again from her bed across the ward, making it difficult for Draco to focus on the Prophet with the headache creeping up on him. It’s an old issue from 1999, his own face plastered across the front page, the headline reading: “DRACO MALFOY SENTENCED TO TIME IN AZKABAN!” He pulls the paper closer, observing the haggard look of his younger self as he’s roughly pushed through a crowd of screaming people.

For a moment, Draco almost doesn’t want to remember that, thoughts darkening when he considers what must’ve happened to him.

Another incessant _woof woof woof_ comes from Agnes.

“Shut it, Aggie!” yells another patient from the other side of the ward who Draco doesn’t know.

Silence. One beat. Two.

Then— _yip yip yip!_

His patience snaps, and he scowls in Agnes’s direction, roughly jerking his curtain back further as he abandons the paper and stomps to her bed. How is he supposed to learn anything about who he is if he can’t even hear himself think?

“Oh, be nice to poor Aggie, Draco. You wouldn’t want me to have to step in, would you?” comes a bright voice to Draco’s left.

Gritting his teeth, Draco turns to see Gilderoy Lockhart sitting up in bed and signing pictures of himself with a broad smile. The man is insufferable, constantly prattling about his own supposed accomplishments and giving Draco an autographed photo every day.

Draco’s scowl deepens. “I’d like to see you try. See what happens to your precious photographs then, _Gilderoy_.”

Gilderoy’s smile falters, a confused hurt twisting his features, making him look incredibly vulnerable for a moment. Draco feels a twinge of guilt, but Gilderoy’s smile is renewed soon enough as he gives a deep chuckle.

“You kids are always so rude, but no worries, I don’t hold it against you. You’ll learn better when you’re older,” he says with a sure nod and patronizing smile. Draco’s hand twitches in irritation, but the lingering guilt stops him from saying that _no_ , he is _not_ a kid.

But in all honesty, the comments only bother him because apparently, Gilderoy used to teach Draco. To think that he knew this man, spoke to him, learned from him, but not be able to remember any of it? It leaves a sick feeling in his stomach.

Because at least Gilderoy knows who he is. At least he recognizes his _own face_.

Feeling a bit off-kilter and disturbed, he ignores Agnes’s barking and returns to his bed, pulling the curtains closed behind him.

He goes over everything he knows in his head: his name is Draco Malfoy, he is twenty-nine years old, he used to work for the Aurors at the Ministry of Magic, his parents’ names are Lucius and Narcissa, he was hit by a strong curse that took away his memories, and now he stays in the Janus-Thickey Ward. Miraculously, he still remembers magic and broader concepts like reading and writing, even places like the Ministry and Hogwarts.

But that’s hardly anything at all, is it? No matter what Healer Soto says, he’s not exactly getting very far or regaining any of his memories. Newspapers aren’t working to trigger any memories yet, so Soto has suggested that he ask Narcissa to visit with some of his old things, once he’s cleared for visitors. Maybe he will.

Draco listens as Lockhart talks to Agnes beyond his curtains, the words lost on him, but he lets out a grateful sigh when she finally stops barking. Gilderoy isn’t all that bad, at least.

His curtains rustle, drawing him from his thoughts as Healer Soto steps in with a tray of food. She eyes the stacks of newspapers on his bedside table with pursed lips, but doesn’t mention anything about the mess as she places the tray on Draco’s bed.

 _Small mercies,_ he thinks.

“Breakfast, love. Have you done your reading today?” Soto asks warmly. Draco drags the tray closer, peering down at the fried egg, toast, and sausages. At least he has two sausages today. _Small mercies, indeed._

“Thank you,” he says and means it. “I tried to read the one about my Azkaban sentence, but Agnes’s ear-splitting barking distracted me.”

Soto shoots him a disapproving glance as she places fresh robes next to the tray, and Draco remembers too late that she doesn’t take kindly to complaints or insults against other patients. Something about having sympathy for those who share your misfortunes. Distinctly uncomfortable, he turns his gaze to his lap.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He’s mortified when he feels a flush creep up his neck, though he’s not quite sure why or how to stop it.

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to, Mr. Malfoy,” Soto says shortly. He glances at her, noticing her expression soften when she sees his blush, and he looks away again.

“Go talk to Agnes. She’s very sweet if you look past the fur,” Soto advises, not unkindly, making her leave once Draco concedes to go talk to Agnes.

Even though he isn’t hungry, he slowly eats his breakfast, trying to delay the inevitable “conversation” with Agnes. He can’t imagine how any discussion can be had when one participant can’t understand the other. Nevertheless, when his tray is mostly empty, and he’s changed into fresh robes, he makes his way over to Agnes’s bed, diagonal from his own.

As he passes by Gilderoy’s partially-closed curtains, he can’t help but peek in and roll his eyes when he sees that the man has gone back to sleep. His breakfast tray is empty, precariously placed atop a stack of books written by or about Gilderoy.

However, Agnes is still eating her breakfast, taking special care to cut her food in small pieces that must be easier for her to chew. Draco didn’t think he would be startled to see her, already knowing what she looks like, but his steps momentarily falter when he takes in her appearance. Her face and arms are covered in black fur, and though she otherwise looks like a normal human, she can’t speak in anything other than barks.

It’s all very strange, but Draco tries to push aside any awkwardness that he might find because of it. She looks up when Draco nears her bed, brown eyes brightening and whiskers twitching in recognition, her mouth curving into an almost-smile. It’s difficult to tell for sure, but Draco gives her a small smile in response.

“Can I sit here?” he asks, placing a hesitant hand on the back of the bedside chair. She nods enthusiastically, gesturing for him to sit. As he does, she offers up the crust of her toast at the end of a fork.

“Ah, thanks for offering, but I just finished eating, myself,” he declines genially. Agnes pops the bit of toast into her mouth with a shrug, giving Draco a glimpse of her sharp canines as she chews. He turns his gaze away—thinking that he’d be uncomfortable if someone was watching _him_ eat—and tries to come up with more things to say than an apology for never introducing himself.

Well, he supposes, that’s as good a place as any to start.

“I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself. I’m Draco. I transferred here a week ago. You’re Agnes, right?” he asks, not expecting much more than a nod in response. Instead, Agnes pulls a notepad and quill towards her from her table. She scribbles something down quickly before flipping it around for him to see.

_The one and only Agnes Peasegood. Nice to meet you. How’d you get stuck with this sorry lot?_

Draco cracks a smile at her phrasing, debating how he’s going to answer her. He doesn’t _know_ how he got here, does he?

“I’m not entirely sure,” he finally settles on. She lets out a little huff that could mean anything, writing on the notepad again.

_Memory loss, eh?_

Draco quirks an eyebrow in surprise. “How’d you know?”

 _You look a little… lost, _she writes with a wink. Draco lets out a short, startled laugh, almost slapping a hand over his mouth when he realizes he’s laughing about his own lack of memories. How morbid.

“That’s a _terrible_ joke,” he replies, but the small chuckle that slips past him takes away the bite in his words. “I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly capable of remembering things.”

 _Nah, you’re a scatterbrained baby,_ she scrawls. Draco gasps in mock-offense, shoving down the laughter bubbling in his chest.

“ _Agnes_!” he exclaims as though she said something scandalous.

And then Agnes is laughing—rhythmic, heavy puffs of air—and Draco can’t help but finally laugh too.

He chats with her for a little while, falling easily into a mix of playful banter, conversation about the ward, and gossiping about other patients (especially Saul Croaker, who spends his days yelling at Agnes to shut it. He used to be an Unspeakable, but now his legs sometimes spontaneously disappear and make working impossible—though they always come back.)

“How long have you been here?” Draco asks curiously. She shoots him an amused glance before she picks up the quill.

 _Can’t remember exactly_ , Agnes writes. _10_ _years?_

Draco’s throat tightens, suddenly confronted by the thought that he could be here forever, like Agnes, until he wouldn’t be able to remember how long he’s looked at these walls. He wants to say he’s sorry or ask how she’s stayed sane all this time, but he won’t.

“Merlin, you’re old,” he says instead. Agnes huffs a laugh in that way that’s quickly becoming endearing, and Draco’s unease lifts.

 _Not as old as Gilderoy,_ Agnes scribbles. He reads the note and laughs far too loudly to be appropriate in a ward full of sick patients.

Around noon, Draco realizes he’s somehow spoken to Agnes for three hours and that Gilderoy will likely be waking up for lunch soon, so he should probably retreat to his own bed. He stands, promising he’ll talk to Agnes later and that yes, he really _does_ have important reading to be doing.

He walks back to his bed, feeling happier than he has since he woke up in St. Mungo’s, though he doesn’t recall _ever_ feeling this happy. He wonders how many other things he’s missing, stomach twisting.

Agnes barks, getting Draco’s attention again and pulling him away from darkening thoughts. She points to herself, then to him, before clasping her hands in front of her and moving them down her stomach. Puzzled, Draco tilts his head at her and smiles apologetically.

“Sorry?” he asks. Agnus waves a dismissive hand and barks a few times, waving him off. A warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest, he obediently returns to his bed when Agnes barks at him to leave.

“ _Aggie!_ ” Saul Croaker groans from across the ward. Draco chuckles as he closes his curtains behind him, intending to pick up the paper about his trial again. He stops when he notices a folded piece of parchment on his bed.

The smile falls from Draco’s face when he unfolds it to see a familiar spiky script, reading:

_I hope you’ve recovered enough of your memory to start your mission. We’re counting on you._

_\- your friend, G_

A heavy weight settles in Draco’s chest, a grim resolve settling over him. He received a similar note the day he transferred to the Janus-Thickey Ward, wishing him well and telling him to await another message. He sits, letting out a shaky breath. He supposes that _this_ is the message he’s been waiting for.

Draco stares at the note as though waiting for something to change,reveal more information, or restore his memories, _anything_. But it doesn’t, and Draco crumbles the parchment and throws it in the trash bin. He places his head in his hands, trying to slow his racing mind.

For whatever reason, he woke up two weeks ago unable to recall his own name. Still, he was able to remember that someone in St. Mungo’s has been stealing and selling potions meant for patients—and can be fatal when administered incorrectly. He has a feeling that no one is going to stop them if it isn’t Draco.

If he wanted to, he could just ignore the message. He could pretend he lost his memories of the “mission” too, and no one could question him. He’s not even entirely sure that he _cares_ about what’s happening to people he doesn’t know, anyways.

It would be easy to keep reading through newspaper after newspaper, trying to trigger memories and regain his old life.

But it occurs to him that what’s happening in St. Mungo’s is probably the reason he lost his memories in the first place—he must’ve known too much or was coming close to catching them when he was an Auror, and _this_ is how they tried to stop him. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.

It’s dangerous, surrounded by potential enemies, not knowing who's an ally, and not even having a wand. Draco doesn’t know why or how he’s going to do it, but he will.

It’s all he has left, and if it’s the key to understanding what happened to him and getting revenge on the people who did it… he’ll find a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if any of the BSL is wrong. Please point out if you see something off!


	3. Narcissa

_Draco Lucius Malfoy, 29, born 6/5/80 to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy_

_Attended Hogwarts as a Slytherin (ambition) in 1991_

_Joined Voldemort (losing side) and took the Dark Mark (branding mark) in 1996, during the second wizarding war. Lived with Voldemort (ew)_

_Served time in Azkaban (Dementors) from 1999-2001. Became an Auror between then and 2009._

_???_

_Lost memories 2/21/09_

* * *

Draco smooths out the wrinkles of his hospital robes with a nervous hand, glancing at the stacks of newspapers that he’s tidied up as much as possible, unable to resist reaching out and straightening them. Again.

Narcissa sent an owl to him earlier that morning, letting him know she would visit him around noon, and he’s grateful she did. Apparently, he can nervously clean for hours.

He looks around his small cubicle at the off-white curtains and walls, his green armchair, neatly-made bed, and the hundred-or-so newspapers on the floor. It’s all very neat and clean, and could certainly pass whatever standards Narcissa might have.

So, of course, Draco rips off his sheets to remake his bed.

Draco moves on instinct while he does this, aware of everything he does now because of something that Healer Soto observed the day before:

_“It’s a miracle that you remember how to do these things. Many of my patients have to relearn simple things like how to hold a fork and how to speak. You’re incredibly lucky.”_

Remembering her comment leaves a bitterness in the back of his mind because he _knows_ he should be grateful that he didn’t lose everything. But it doesn’t change that he hates feeling like he has to be happy for not losing _more_.

Frustrated, he snaps the fitted bed sheet over his mattress with sharp movements, tucking pillows into pillowcases with unnecessary aggression.

He’s re-cleaned and re-organized his entire cubicle before Soto pokes through Draco’s curtains to see what’s going on.

“Whatcha doing?” she asks, and Draco, lost in thought, startles and drops a few newspapers.

“Do you have no sense of privacy?” he snaps, shaking his head in irritation as he bends over and picks the papers up. _Honestly_.

“‘fraid not,” Soto says off-handedly. “We _do_ have a checkup, love.”

“I know, I know,” he mumbles, laying down before she has to ask. He knows the drill by now. Soto offers a small smile, rolling up the sleeves of her robes, and lifts her wand.

She mutters spells under her breath that mean nothing to him, and he wills himself to relax against his pillows and the eternally stiff blankets. He feels waves of warm, heavy magic pass over him as Soto completes her diagnostic charms, listening intently to her soft murmurs and the scratching of her self-writing quill.

In a few minutes, it’s over.

“Well, all your vitals are normal. There haven’t been any changes in your magical core or your brain. I can’t be sure there isn’t any major trauma to them—unless you see a specialist,” Soto says a bit absently, jotting something down on her clipboard with that distracted air she always adopts after checkups.

“No change is a good thing, though, right?” Draco asks, swinging his feet over the side of the bed to face her properly. The clipboard disappears from Soto’s hand with a small _pop!_

“Maybe,” she says vaguely. “Your mother is visiting today, yes?”

“Yes,” Draco replies, wondering where Soto is going with this.

“It’s a good idea to discuss evaluation and assessment options with her. We have a lot of avenues you can explore at St. Mungo’s so you can understand the extent of the damage done to you, and possibly even figure out the spell used,” Soto says, affecting a focused air now that the clipboard is gone.

“While I can help you adjust to life without those memories and be here for emergencies, I can’t prevent further damage if I don’t know what caused it in the first place.”

“Would having a—a diagnosis mean I could get treatment if nothing is damaged?” he asks, trying to keep the note of hope out of his voice.

Soto’s eyes soften, and she tilts her head as she regards him, and he knows he didn’t do a good job of hiding anything.

“Possibly, depending on the spell and kind of trauma to your core,” she says gently. Draco understands what she’s not saying: the chances of regaining his memories are slim.

He thinks for a moment, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his robes. Based on everything he’s learned about who he was, he’s not even sure he actually _wants_ his memories back, but it’s an alluring thought. It would solve all of his problems, and he’d no longer wonder what sort of person he is or what secrets he kept.

But then he thinks of the potions and his attacker, and suddenly things are twisting around in his head and making everything more complicated.

“What would you do?” he asks eventually.

“I would at least be seen to assess the damage. Any trauma to your core could cause problems down the line, if and when you use magic again. I know how crushing it can be if you learn that it’s unlikely you’ll regain your memories, but you don’t have to seek treatment even if you know there is a chance. It’s your choice, love. Not mine,” Soto says, voice calm, soothing Draco’s inner turmoil.

“I don’t quite know what I want. But I’ll give it some thought and discuss it with Narcissa today,” he concedes, offering Soto a smile for her honest yet kind words.

“Good lad,” Soto says, grinning before she ducks out of Draco’s cubicle. He checks the clock—a quarter till twelve—and assumes that Narcissa will arrive soon, so he settles onto his pillows with an issue of the _Daily Prophet_ (POTTER TALKS OLD SCHOOL RIVALRIES AND ROMANCE!)

At noon exactly, Draco’s nerves as tight as a wire, someone raps softly on one of the metal poles hanging up his curtain.

“Draco?” a woman calls softly. Draco is on his feet in a moment, flinging the curtains back, holding his breath and staring at the witch with wide eyes. Narcissa looks back, unrecognizable emotions flickering across her face. She’s strikingly beautiful, with her high cheekbones and thin lips, and any sign of aging seems elegant on her.

He knows what she looks like from photographs, and corresponded with her through letters, but it’s different in person. She seems more real. More human.

Realizing they’ve been staring at each other for entirely too long, he says the first thing that comes to mind: “Hi, Narcissa.”

He winces when Narcissa blanches, eyeing him with barely-concealed hurt. Draco’s stomach clenches painfully, but of _course,_ she would be hurt. Draco is her _son_ , not a former friend, and he has no idea why he called her by her first name to her face.

“What did I call you—before?” he asks, voice catching over the words. She takes a deep breath to compose herself, the troubled expression leaving her face as she squares her shoulders once again.

“Mother,” she says eventually. “It’s okay. We’ll get there.”

“We will,” Draco replies, unsure of how else he should respond. He steps aside, pulling his curtain back a little more, and gestures for her to step inside his cubicle. “Come in, sit down.”

Suddenly wishing that he had tea and biscuits to offer her, Draco nervously smooths over the front of his robes before he sits in his bed, a few feet away from where Narcissa sits in the armchair. She’s staring at him like he’s a ghost.

“I hope you don’t mind that I don’t have any tea to offer,” he says cordially.

She smiles politely. “I didn’t expect any.”

Draco flushes a little, hoping it’s not noticeable, but based on the small, more genuine smile that Narcissa gives, it probably is.

“How do you find the ward?” he asks, knowing that nothing is interesting about four walls and a single window, but trying to come up with something to say that’s not “ _You’re_ _my mother. You’re my_ mother _.”_

“Draco, darling, pleasantries have never looked good on you,” Narcissa laughs, clear and genuine, and Draco feels an involuntary twitch of his lips when he hears it. His heart is doing flips, replaying her words. He’s _always_ been bad at this, then.

So, he may as well get straight to the point.

“Healer Soto recommended during my checkup that I see a specialist. To determine if there’s any damage to my magical core or my brain.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrow immediately. “Did you agree to it?”

Feeling like he’s done something wrong without knowing what it is or what he should say, he hesitates.

“I told her I’d think about it and discuss it with you,” he says slowly. “Should I have agreed?”

“No. Not to the brain specialist,” Narcissa replies vaguely. “Do you remember the letter you sent me a few hours before you were attacked?”

Draco furrows his eyebrows, remembering the note he sent off into the storm. That must’ve been for Narcissa. Caught between wanting to know what he wrote and why she suddenly brings it up, he decides on a neutral response. “I don’t know what was in it, but I remember sending it.”

Narcissa hums in thought, studying him intently. Draco feels like squirming under her gaze, flattening the wrinkles in his robes that are bunched on his legs. He feels her eyes following his movements and resists the urge to freeze.

“I brought the letter with me,” she says, and Draco’s eyes shoot up to meet her steely ones. “It has information in it that could potentially help you regain your memories.”

“What? Can I see it?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. Narcissa’s gaze remains determined.

“It also has information about your mission,” she says, voice dropping in volume. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

“You’re joking,” he whispers, eyes flicking over to the partially-open curtains nervously before he shuts them, even though he knows it won’t do much.

“I’m perfectly serious. But I can’t give it to you until I know what you’re doing to do with it,” she says. Draco licks his lips.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Answer me honestly, Draco. Is your mission, or the possibility of regaining your memories more important to you?” she asks, a grim set to her shoulders.

The breath leaves Draco’s chest. He never thought he’d have to _choose_.

“I don’t know. Both are important,” he admits, voice soft. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that it _is_ a choice. If he regained his memories, he would no longer be able to catch the potion stealer from inside St. Mungo’s, or worse: his attacker would likely come back to finish the job if he found out.

“It’s a choice you have to make. You can’t have both, not if you choose your memories first. You know that darling,” Narcissa replies, eyes and voice softening. She reaches over to him and places her hand over Draco’s, a warm, steady thing to calm his worries.

He wants his memories back—but at the same time, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to remember everything, just to be relieved when he realizes how much he really needed his memories all along. He doesn’t want to know about Azkaban or living with Voldemort or horror stories from the Aurors. He doesn’t know if he can be a person without those experiences, but he’s terrified of reliving them. What if he can’t even get his memories back?

He bites his lip, making up his mind.

Before he can say anything, the curtains are being pushed aside—making Draco jump—but it’s just Agnes shuffling into the cubicle. She’s carrying a tray with two mismatched mugs, strings of tea bags hanging over the sides, eyes alight with excitement. She glances between Draco and Narcissa, something like a grin spreading across her face, and sets the tray down on Draco’s bedside table.

“N—Mother, this Agnes. Agnes, this is my mother,” he says. Narcissa smiles gently at Agnes, and it occurs to Draco that they’re likely near the same age.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Narcissa says politely. Probably sensing that it would be weird to shake hands, Agnes smiles wide, though not wide enough to show her canines. Similarly to what she did the other day, she moves her thumb along the bottom of her chin, holds up her index fingers, joins them together, and then points at Narcissa.

Draco stares at her in puzzlement, but Narcissa seems to understand, at least partially.

“Sign language?” she asks, and Agnes nods enthusiastically. Draco makes a mental note to ask Narcissa about that later.

Agnes passes Draco a pre-written note, an amused gleam in her eye, and Draco rolls his eyes when he reads it:

_Soto asked me to bring this to you. She said tea cures awkward and uncomfortable conversations._

“The audacity you both have to suggest that a conversation with _me_ could ever be awkward,” he jokes, lifting his nose haughtily, and Agnes breathes a laugh. He almost thinks he hears Narcissa laughing too, and feels the tension fade from his muscles.

Narcissa passes him the larger mug of the two—the one that says _World’s Best Healer_ —while she takes the blue striped one.

“What kind of tea is it?” Draco asks curiously, sniffing it and frowning as he tries to discern whether he’ll like the taste based on how it smells. Agnes pulls out her self-inking quill, but Narcissa answers first.

“Earl Grey,” she says, sipping from her own mug and looking pleased. “It’s nice. Thank you, Agnes.”

Agnes inclines her head as Draco takes a tentative sip of the tea, and he frowns.

“I’m not sure I like this,” he admits, but cradles the mug close for the comfortable warmth and to have something in his hands.

“Add three sugars,” Narcissa says immediately. Agnes laughs again, and he’s sure that she’s thinking something sarcastic.

He obliges Narcissa, adding three sugar cubes, already liking it more just from its scent. He sips it, feeling the warmth of it in his chest and smiles.

“This is much better,” he comments. “Thank you.”

Narcissa shakes her head softly. “It’s how you’ve always taken your tea.”

Draco isn’t sure how that makes him feel, so he thanks Agnes for bringing tea and promises he’ll talk to her later, and she makes her leave with the tray.

Narcissa stares at him expectantly, apparently not forgetting their earlier conversation and still expecting an answer. He sobers, the last of his good mood slipping away.

“I want my memories back, but I have an obligation here first. My memories can wait,” he says.

Narcissa’s eyes shine with something that’s probably pride, and Draco feels like he’s done something right with her.

She reaches inside her robes and pulls out a small, folded piece of parchment, dark green ink stark against the page. Draco recognizes it—feels drawn by it—and has to resist reaching out to take it from her immediately. When she does hand it over to him, he decides not to open it with her here, instead placing it near his pillow.

“You can rely on me, Draco. If there’s anything you need, anything at all…” she trails off, eyes imploring. Draco smiles, suddenly thinking of Agnes.

“Do you happen to have any books on sign language?” he asks, knowing that’s not what Narcissa was thinking of when she offered her help, but curious enough to ask anyways. She just an eyebrow, looking amused.

“I do, actually. I’ll send them to you when I return to the Manor,” she says. And with that, she stands abruptly, setting her empty mug on the bedside table.

“Thank you. It’s been nice to see you in person,” Draco says, choosing his wording carefully. He wants to say that it’s been nice to meet her, but he’s not _stupid_.

“Yes, it has,” Narcissa says softly. She hesitates before placing a hand on his shoulder briefly, her touch barely there before moving away. With one last smile and goodbye, she leaves him alone in his cubicle.

Draco waits until he no longer hears the clicking of her boots to close the curtain and grab the letter. He stares uncertainly at it for a moment, at Narcissa’s name in green ink, hardly recognizing the handwriting. His handwriting isn’t as loose or flowy like it used to be, and if he didn’t already know he’d written it, it would take some convincing to make him believe it.

Taking a deep breath, he unfolds the letter. A smaller piece of parchment falls out onto his lap, but he focuses on the letter itself.

_Mother,_

_Please keep this letter safe until you see fit to share it. I trust you to know when I’ll need it back, and you don’t need to bother with Gawain. You know how he is. Just trust that I’m safe, and I love you._

_\- Draco_

Frowning, expecting more, he turns to the slip of parchment that fell out. It reads:

_Agrippa_

_Lethe River Water_

_Re’em blood_

_Lobalug venom_

_Unicorn blood_

_Granian hair_

_Herbaria_

_Jobberknoll feathers_

Draco furrows his eyebrows. How could this help the case? He doesn’t know what any of these items do, or why they are important. He almost thinks that it could’ve been something Narcissa accidentally brought with her—it seems almost like a shopping list—but he doesn’t think she would make a mistake like that, and this is the only actual information in the letter.

He rereads both parts of the letter, his confusion deepening. Realizing that it never mentions the case, or even St. Mungo’s, how did Narcissa know about it? It occurs to him that he could’ve told her a separate time, and it’s the only other explanation he has, so he accepts it.

And then, there’s the casual mention of whoever Gawain is. It seems like they used to be friends or at least friendly with each other, and Narcissa has to know who he is too.

But something else bothers him about the letter. It’s like he _knew_ he was going to lose his memories, or at the very least, knew that something was going to happen.

Draco wishes he could remember more than fragments. If he did, a lot of this would make more sense.

With a sigh, he folds the letter up and tucks it under the stack of newspapers. On the top of the stack is the next issue of the _Prophet_ that his name appears in (MALFOY OUT OF AZKABAN, REDEEMED OR RUINED?) It’s from 2002. It’s not a headline piece, and the small photo of him included beneath the article is very unflattering, but it’s information nonetheless.

He settles further into his pillows as he opens the paper. He’s interested to see whether or not this Rita Skeeter character considered him fit for society after being released from Azkaban.

He has a distinct feeling that she didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some meta stuff~
> 
> Agnes canonically doesn't have a last name. She was hospitalized sometime before Christmas of 1995, and it's presumed that she either failed an attempt to turn into a dog animagus, or mistakenly drank a polyjuice potion with dog fur in it. More likely, the former. Her son is mentioned to be visiting her when Harry passes through the Janus Thickey Ward in 1995 - so I looked around and found Arnold Peasegood, born sometime around 1976, who worked as an Obliviator until 1999. His first and only appearance was in 1994 during the Quidditch World Cup. His connection to memories, as well as his age and nickname (Arnie, similar to Aggie), is why I decided to give Agnes the surname Peasegood.


	4. Restricted Potions Access

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to avoid the (somewhat) graphic vomiting scene in this chapter, skip about six to eight paragraphs once Draco enters the bathroom. It's essential to know that it happens, but this doesn't spoil anything. :)
> 
> Much love to [lastontheboat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/works) for the quick beta!

_Had a school rivalry with Harry Potter (“Savior of the Wizarding World,” winning side), but apparently saved him in 1998… find Potter?_

_Was acceptedinto the Auror program in 2002. Rita Skeeter can fuck off._

_Was the list in the letter potion ingredients?_

_Who’s Gawain?_

* * *

Draco spends the next hour and a half reading the _Daily Prophet_ with varying degrees of amusement and irritation. Rita Skeeter was particularly biased when it came to Draco (or any former Death Eater, for that matter), but some of the opinion pieces in the back of the paper make him crack a smile.

He sets aside a newspaper about the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, which he provided a statement for—it’s clear that it was _not_ written by Skeeter—and almost accidentally knocks one of Soto’s mugs off his bedside table.

He eyes them, wondering what to do with them, before he glances at the clock. It’s a quarter to four, and—seeing an opportunity—he decides to head to Soto’s office.

 _Soto’s shift ends at four_ , Draco reminds himself.

He collects the mugs before he makes his way towards the front of the ward. The sun is warm on his back as he walks past the other beds, the bathroom, and then Healer Wagner’s office near the entrance of the ward. He avoids the old, circular rug on the floor with his nose wrinkled in distaste—it smells of dust and sickness.

Soto’s office door is closed, so Draco turns to take a seat on the sofa across the room, and—even though he knows she’s there—startles at the sight of Rue. She’s pressed into the corner of the sofa, knees drawn up to her chest, looking incredibly small as she stares at Draco. Her eyes are glassy and far away, and Draco tenses as he sits with as much distance between them as possible.

He doesn’t mean to cause any offense to her or make _her_ uncomfortable, but he doesn’t even think that she can actually understand what’s going on. In all the time he watched her, she hasn’t spoken a word, and she’s unresponsive to the healers when they talk to her.

Rue is always sitting into the cushions as though she is trying to sink into the leather. Except for at night, when Healer Parson coaxes her back to bed around nine o’clock. He’s watched them walk back to Rue’s cubicle before, seen how she struggles to walk, how Parson practically carries her and wonders what could’ve happened to her.

Though he feels a little guilty for it, Draco suspects that her presence is part of the reason why the trainee healers avoid staying in the ward too long—though he reasons that Agnes’s fur and Saul’s temper might do that, too. He could probably use that to his advantage, eventually.

But now, sitting a few feet away from her, Draco feels a little sick. He can understand why the trainees don't like being in the ward. Rue is much younger than he initially thought she was, and it leaves his stomach twisting.

Trying to focus on something other than her staring at him, he downs the rest of his tea, even though it’s cold, and smooths down the front of his robes again. He hopes that Soto will be as eager as usual to leave and not think much of him hovering by her office. Otherwise, he’ll have sat here for nothing.

Rue is still staring at him by the time Soto’s door opens, and Draco stands quickly, almost splashing the rest of Narcissa’s tea all over the floor. She doesn’t even look at him as she starts towards the ward’s entrance, and anxiety tightens Draco’s chest before he shakes it off.

“Healer Soto, I have your mugs,” he calls after her, and she turns back to him with a tired smile.

“Oh yes, just put them on my desk, love,” she says quickly, waving her wand towards her office. Her hand is shaking violently, making the door swing open faster than necessary, and Draco frowns. He doesn’t ask about it, though, just letting out a relieved breath that Soto didn’t hesitate to allow him inside her office.

He waits a few seconds after Soto has left the ward to walk into her office, glancing at the beds down the ward and confirming that all of the curtains are closed. Then he looks over his shoulder at Rue. She usually stares at him anytime he’s near, but now she turns her gaze to her knees, picking at invisible lint as if to say, “I don’t see anything.”

The tight ball of anxiety relaxes a bit more from that. It seems like he could actually _do_ this and not get caught. He has around ten minutes until the trainee healers will enter the ward and poke through everyone’s curtains to make sure no one is dying—and then Healer Parson will arrive and make her rounds around the ward.

Draco steps into Soto’s office and shuts the door gently behind him. It clicks softly as it falls into place. To his right is a large filing cabinet, which he decides to look through first. Soto’s desk is against the left wall, an armchair between it and the door. He quickly sets the mugs down on the desk before turning to the filing cabinet, hoping it’s not locked or warded.

To his relief, when he pulls open the top drawer, nothing happens.

He only needs information: about potions, notes or files detailing when certain patients arrived, or any indicators of when the potions started being stolen.

The first drawer is full of patient files. They can’t all possibly be of the current patients in the ward, considering there’s only five, but the majority of the files are thin. Draco assumes that the thicker ones are of Soto’s patients—himself and Agnes—and she likely doesn’t have access to anyone else’s complete files.

The files are sorted by surnames, and fortunately, Draco knows everyone’s apart from Rue’s. It’s a little frustrating that he won’t be able to find hers with the amount of time he has, but he focuses instead of the ones he _can_ check. He quickly finds Agnes’s file, which is the thickest one there, probably a hundred pages thick—which makes sense if Agnes has really been there as long as she said she has.

_Patient Name: Peasegood, Agnes M._

_Admitted: 11-20-95_

_Reason for admittance: failed animagus transformation, permanent damage to internal organs and organ functions, life-long treatment required_

_Risk: Medium (1-1-09). Exempt from locking charms._

Draco raises his eyebrows—Agnes can leave the ward if she wants to. He wonders if she knows that. It seemed, at least to him, that no one could leave the ward.

His curiosity peaks when he sees the next page (“Patient Notes”), but he doesn’t keep reading Agnes’s file. He’s already seen everything he needs to know, and learning more would only intrude on her privacy. It’s difficult to push aside his desire to know more about her, but he closes the folder and slides it back into place.

He quickly goes through the files of other patients in the ward, checking the dates to see if any are recent. The only one transferred into the ward lately is Draco, though he doesn’t know about Rue. He makes a mental note to ask Agnes to see if she remembers when Rue was admitted.

Reading over Saul’s, Draco feels a little disgusted—Saul’s leg that Agnes mentioned as being “sometimes there, and sometimes not” was _literal_. He went through a time-travel related accident, and now his leg below his knee spontaneously phases in-between times, which is extremely painful for him and causes rapid blood loss.

Draco hopes he’ll never have to see, or even hear, Saul go through that. Unsurprisingly, Saul is a high-risk patient.

But importantly, Saul was admitted in 1997, which means it’s unlikely he’s working with the potion thief—though it’s still not a good idea to rule him out completely. He hasn’t even spoken to Saul directly and has no idea if he’s capable of getting away with something like this.

Gilderoy was admitted before any of them, all the way back in 1993, and it doesn’t surprise Draco that Gilderoy took his own memories by accident. He tries to tell himself not to discredit Gilderoy over his _apparent_ lack of memories, but he’s so useless that Draco just can’t imagine him being involved.

He quickly finds his own file, which is thinner than the rest of them.

_Patient Name: Malfoy, Draco L._

_Admitted: 2-21-09_

_Reason for admittance: Memory loss, unknown cause and constancy, unresponsive to standard treatment_

_Risk: Low (3-1-09). Exempt from locking and monitoring charms._

Draco lets out a small breath. Things will be much easier if he can exit the ward whenever he pleases.

He resists reading the rest of his file, aware that he doesn’t have much time, and moves his search to the other drawers in the cabinet. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how he looks at it), the other drawers are full of old patient files that would do him no good.

Draco turns to Soto’s desk, feeling guilty, knowing how many personal boundaries he’s crossing with her to be doing this. He tells himself that if Soto knew what was happening, she’d probably _want_ him to search her office for clues anyway.

He purposely doesn’t think about how wrong it is that he read the other patient’s files, too.

Soto’s desk doesn’t have much on it apart from the mugs that Draco placed on it. There’s a framed photo of her and a similar-looking witch—Draco would guess she’s Soto’s sister—laughing as students. Soto’s tie is yellow and black, her sister’s green and silver, their school robes shifting in the wind. Red and orange leaves fall all around them, and Draco feels a stab in his chest when he sees how care-free Soto looks.

Draco probably used to know the place they took the picture. It was definitely taken at Hogwarts, after all, and he grimaces as he thinks of it. He knows how much he’s lost, but he wonders how he can actually _understand_ his loss after being confronted by something like this.

He shakes himself from those thoughts, turning back to his search. Now isn’t the time.

He goes through Soto’s desk drawers, finding nothing except empty potion vials, meaningless paperwork, quills and ink, and her clipboard. Nothing regarding the potions—not even records of what’s being brewed for the patients of the Janus-Thickey ward.

Draco runs his hand through his hair, at a loss. Any information must be in the other healer’s offices—if there’s any at all. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get into their offices without a wand, but he’ll have to figure it out.

He steps away from the desk with a heavy sigh, accidentally kicking the trash bin as he does, wincing at the loud clang it makes when it tips over. He hopes no one heard that.

Draco tries to scoop everything back into the bin as quickly as possible, the contents mostly candy wrappers and broken quills, but a crumpled up piece of parchment grabs his attention.

Pulse quickening with the hope it’ll be something useful, he unfolds it, reading:

_Notice 3-05: Restricted Potions Access_

_There’s been some tampering with the wards on a few of our potion supplies during the past week, and several potions have gone missing. Again. We’re restricting access to the head healers only. Keep an eye on all potion stores, especially in the Potions and Plant Poisoning ward, and the Janus Thickey ward. Report anything out of the ordinary. We’re conducting our own investigation into who’s been keying unauthorized personnel into the wards. Until we reach a conclusion, all healers must report to their department heads for prescription potions._

_Thanks for your cooperation,_

_Director Healer P._

_Artefact Accidents, St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries_

Draco raises his eyebrows as he reads through the notice. This is from today, and it’s as good of a starting point as he’s going to get—especially because the potions are mostly disappearing from the very ward he’s living in.

He remembers how badly Soto’s hands were shaking earlier when she came out of the office, and this must be the reason. He’d probably be shaken too if he was a healer in her position, but he decides not to dwell on it while still in her office.

He glances at the clock hanging above the door, and his throat tightens when he realizes he’s been in here for _fifteen_ minutes. The knot in his chest constricts tightly, making him feel like he’s unable to breathe. He takes a deep breath, then another, and puts the notice back in the trash bin. He walks over to the door, pressing his ear against it and hoping that he won’t hear anything coming from the ward. He’s not so lucky.

“Hey, Rue,” comes a muffled voice. “How are you today?”

There’s no response—which, of course, there isn’t. Draco strains to pick up the sound of the healer’s footsteps, getting louder as she nears Soto’s office, and his mouth goes dry before the steps soften again. He’ll have to leave eventually, but how can he do it without the trainee seeing him and before Parson arrives?

He glances at the clock again. Parson will be here any minute now. He wipes sweaty palms on his robes, trying not to think about what would happen if Parson discovered him in Soto’s office. It doesn’t take twenty minutes to put mugs on a desk.

He startles when Agnes suddenly starts barking, much louder than she usually does. He winces—the noise is grating, even through the door.

“Shh, Agnes, please calm down!” he hears the trainee saying over the barks, sounding panicked and concerned.

Agnes doesn’t usually bark when the trainees are in the ward. He takes advantage of whatever’s causing her to now to dart out of Soto’s office and into the bathroom across the hall. It’s small but clean, with a shower, bathtub, toilet, and sink. The walls are pale blue and, like everywhere else, it smells sterile.

Draco presses his back against the door as he listens until finally, Agnes’s barking stops.

He debates leaving the bathroom and simply going back to his cubicle, knowing he’d be able to if he wants. But suddenly, he feels wretched _._ The room spins, the sink seems to be getting further and further away, the walls stretching and warping. His stomach turns over itself, and panic rises in him—he knows what this has to be, but he doesn’t want it to happen.

He grasps his throat, sucking in deep breaths, willing it to stop. _No no no no_. He half-stumbles to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing his face with freezing water, relieved for all of a half-second. He falls to the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach.

There’s a knock on the door just as his stomach starts to settle, and he flushes the sick away, taking quick, uneven breaths.

 _That_ was unpleasant.

“Mr. Malfoy?” the trainee asks through the door. “Are you okay?”

His entire body feels _horrid_ , for no reason that he can even think of. Maybe it was his nerves finally catching up to him?

“Yes, I’m fine,” he calls hoarsely. “Something I ate.”

“Well, all right,” she says hesitantly, and though doubt is evident in her voice, she doesn’t press him any more than that.

He stands on shaky legs, stumbling over to the sink. He swishes a bit of water around his mouth before spitting it out and washing his face. Feeling a little more steady, he walks back to his bed, trying not to move his head around too much.

Agnes shoots him a concerned look, and he smiles weakly at her in response, but doesn’t stop or say anything. He only wants to lay down and take a nap.

Of _course_ this had to happen today, right when he needs to be able to think about things properly. He promises himself that as soon as he wakes from his nap, he’ll think over everything.

He slides between the bed sheets, which are still as stiff as ever. Despite that, his eyes immediately fall closed of their own accord, and he drifts into sleep.

He wakes around an hour later to the sound of someone calling his name.

“Mr. Malfoy, wake up. Mr. Malfoy! _”_

He rubs his eyes and sits up, squinting against the sunlight pouring in through the window and eyeing the trainee healer standing above him. Cassandra, he thinks her name is. She’s holding a potion, anxiously fiddling with it and looking at him worriedly.

“Healer Soto told me to give you this potion. It’s for your nausea,” she says quietly, holding out the vial for him to take. The potion is thick and deep green in color, and Draco takes it from her. Exhaustion makes his movements slow. He really just wants to go back to sleep.

"Thanks," he murmurs. Setting the vial on his bedside table and falling back onto his pillows with a sigh, he absently brushes his hair out of his eyes and waits for Cassandra to leave.

But instead, she stares at him for a moment, cheeks reddening and eyes wide, seeming frozen.

“What?” He tries not to snap at her. He’s just _tired_. Cassandra abruptly turns away and wraps her arms around herself as she leaves his cubicle.

“I hope you feel better,” she squeaks over her shoulder, voice suddenly shrill.

“Thanks,” Draco says distractedly. He looks self-consciously down at his robes, wondering if there’s something wrong with them, but he’s too tired to think that much about it. Cassandra is always a little weird around him, anyway—it’s probably nothing.

With that last thought, he rolls over and shuts his eyes, fading easily back into sleep.


	5. Malfoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a bout of graphically described nausea in this chapter. For spoiler's sake, I can't give exactly where, but it comes up pretty obviously and doesn't last too long!
> 
> Much much love to J for the speedy read through, and to Lily for helping with formatting. ❤

_Potions have been going missing—only head healers can enter and exit the potions stores now. Why potions from St. Mungo’s? Why not make them?_

_None of the other patients’ admittance dates are recent. Ask Agnes about Rue._

* * *

It’s early morning, the sun not even up, when a new patient is admitted to the Janus-Thickey Ward. The only reason Draco knows there’s a new patient is because they're screaming bloody murder—which is concerning, but not surprising. On a normal day, Draco would be annoyed if he isn’t so curious about it.

Groggily, Draco swings his legs over his bed and edges forward to reach for the curtains, pulling them back and peeking through. It’s difficult to see around Rue’s cubicle, but one of the healers—maybe Healer Wagner—steps back into view long enough for Draco to see him pull out his wand and cast a spell that puts the patient to sleep.

The new patient goes silent, and Draco feels a twinge of pity for them.

Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns his gaze over to Agnes’s bed, where she’s peeking out of her own curtains and gesturing for him to go back inside.

He rolls his eyes, but ducks back into his curtains anyway. Wagner can get strict about patient confidentiality, so he probably wouldn’t take kindly to someone spying on them.

Feeling restless and unable to go back to sleep, he reads over the note from the day before. He raises his eyebrows, amused at how messy his handwriting was due to the angle he wrote at, but he’s more relieved than anything. He actually remembers writing that note down—he was oddly afraid that he wouldn’t by the time he woke up—but more importantly, he can remember the notice and everything he discussed with Narcissa yesterday morning.

According to the notice, the potions thief is still working inside St. Mungo’s, and keys people into the wards on the storerooms. Draco frowns when he thinks about it. The only reason they would do that would be if they weren’t working alone.

So not only are they working with someone else, but with someone who previously didn’t have access to the storerooms. Only one of them is in a position to be trusted with the potions, which narrows down the suspects, but the other one could be _anyone_.

It also raises the question of _why_ they need a partner.

Not only that, but Draco has no way of knowing if the new restrictions on the wards will affect them at all. Not unless he can somehow monitor the potions stock records.

An idea pulls at him. He probably can’t do it, but… maybe he’ll get lucky. He glances at the clock. It’s four in the morning, and Wagner’s shift ends in slightly less than four hours.

He puts his notes beneath his pillow—it’s too dangerous to have them out in the open, now—and peeks into the ward again. He’s just in time to see Wagner disappear into his office, the door shutting with a click behind him.

Draco self-consciously flattens his hair and smooths out his robes before he goes to Agnes’s bed. He doesn’t bother putting on slippers, though. Socks are quieter.

He raps softly on the pole holding Agnes’s curtains when he reaches her cubicle.

“Agnes,” he whispers as loud as he dares. “Can we talk?”

There’s a rustling of blankets and the pad of her footsteps as she walks to her curtains and pulls them aside for him. Her fur sticks up wildly, whiskers drooping a bit, but her eyes are bright. Draco probably doesn’t look any more presentable—loathe as he would be to admit that out loud, though.

He closes the curtains behind him when he steps inside, sliding into the bedside chair with ease as Agnes settles into the blankets on her bed.

Self-inking quill in hand, she scrawls:

_What can be this important at such an ungodly hour?_

Draco’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. He tugs on his sleeve for a moment as he tries to decide whether to confide in her about yesterday or not.

Best-case scenario, she’s fully supportive and is willing to help him—but he’s not sure if the worst-case scenario would be losing her companionship, or if she were to rat him out. Both thoughts leave him wary, but the latter more so.

Either way, he’s already here, and he _wants_ to trust her.

“Did you know that you can just walk out of the ward?” he finally says. It’s difficult to tell, but Draco gets the impression that Agnes is raising her eyebrows.

_How do you figure that? _she writes.

“This stays between us,” he whispers. Agnes rolls her eyes, but nods. “I went through Soto’s office yesterday.”

Agnes stares at him unblinkingly for a moment. He shifts uneasily.

_Why?_ she writes carefully.

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell you later, but not right now. The point is, you’re a medium-risk patient. You can leave the ward, but your monitoring charms are still up. But with how long you’ve been here, have you ever _tried_ to leave? Did they tell you that you couldn’t?”

Agnes’s eyes narrow. _I have tried to leave, but that was back when Healer Strout still worked here. Things were different then._

“Different?” he asks. Something about the way she phrased it doesn’t sit well with him, and his chest tightens with concern.

But Agnes shakes her head sharply, as if to dispel his worry, or maybe her own memories of Strout.

_It was a long time ago. What’s important is that Soto is a better head healer than Strout was, and she’s willing to bend the rules a little bit. If I wanted to leave the ward or St. Mungo’s for a bit, I could just ask, and Cassandra would go with me. The same for you._

“I didn’t know that I could just _leave_ ,” he says, feeling petulant. “Soto sometimes makes it seem like I can’t even walk on my own, much less

He puts his chin in his right hand, tapping the fingers of his left on the armchair as he thinks. Agnes shrugs.

_Well, you can. Why do you mention it, anyway? Feeling cooped up?_

He gives her a significant look that he’s sure she’ll figure out the meaning of, and after a long second, Agnes lets out a breath. It’s disappointed and amused all at once.

_If you want to snoop around for whatever reason, go ahead. Just don’t get caught. I don’t want to know what you’re doing, either._

Draco sighs in relief. It’s not outright support, but it’s not rejection, either.

After a moment of hesitation, she adds: _You don’t want me to cover for you, do you? Because I’m the worst person for the job. I can’t speak, Draco._

She looks at him like she’s worried he’s come down with something, and Draco huffs a laugh.

“No, no,” he says lightly. “I’m just asking you to distract Wagner if he decides to impulsively check on me. He shouldn’t, but in the off-chance he does…”

Agnes purses her lips, but nods slowly. _I need to ask for a new quill, anyway. The charms on this one are starting to wear off._

Draco smiles. Now that she mentions it, he notices that the ink _does_ look a little flaky.

“You’re a saint,” he says earnestly. Agnes snorts.

_Keep thinking that, darling._

Draco laughs, and they talk a little while longer before he leaves Agnes to herself. He glances at the clock out of habit once he steps out into the ward. Four-twenty. He could theoretically wander around the hospital for three hours until the end of Wagner’s shift, if he felt like it.

Not that he does, but it’s nice to have the option.

He makes his way back to his bed, intent on getting ready to venture outside of the ward. The inevitable nervousness is starting to set in, but he tries to shake it off as he shuts his curtains behind him.

He eyes his small notepad and self-inking quill on the bedside table, deciding he should probably take them with him. They slip easily into his pocket, along with the anti-nausea potion Soto gave him yesterday—just in case.

He drinks a small glass of water, attempts to flatten his hair again, and slides his feet into his slippers before he leaves.

He glances at Agnes’s cubicle when he walks past it, half-hoping she’ll poke her head out and wave or sign something, even if he won’t understand it. But she doesn’t. Unreasonable disappointment drops like a stone in his chest.

Draco walks along the opposite wall from Wagner’s office as he nears the entrance of the ward, practically pressing his body against the wall, nervous that Wagner will somehow see him leave. The glass in the office doors are opaque and lettered with the healers’ names, and he knows from Soto’s office that they’re not easy to see through, but he doesn’t want to push it.

In his haste to pass Wagner’s office by, he didn’t notice that Rue is already awake and staring at him. He freezes when he sees her, heart plummeting. He doubts that she’d say anything to any of the healers about him leaving—seeing as he’s never seen her speak at all—but she could very well just be shy.

Unsure of what to do, but feeling as if he has to acknowledge her somehow, he gives her a small wave. Unexpectedly, her lips twitch into a slight smile, and she briefly taps her index finger against her lips.

_Hush_ , she seems to say.

He blinks, almost wondering if he’s hallucinating. He finally decides that no, he isn’t, and it would be rude to ignore her. So he smiles gently at her, before stepping up to the doors.

Part of him expects to be met with an invisible barrier when he reaches for the doorknob, but nothing happens. He glances at Rue, who’s gone back to staring, before he pushes one of the doors open.

Thankfully, it doesn’t squeak, and he shuts it with a soft click behind him.

The corridor stretches far on either side of the entrance. The walls are ivory-colored above waist-height, pale blue below, and there are a few doors lining the opposite wall. It’s much different than inside the ward, and the unfamiliarity makes Draco uneasy.

Though, he supposes that he’s going to have to get used to unfamiliar things.

He glances from the right to the left, trying to decide which direction to go. He has no idea where the potions storeroom is, though he imagines that it’s close by, considering that each ward has its own storeroom.

On a whim, he goes left. His slippers make small shuffling sounds as he walks.

The doors seem to lead to offices, general check up rooms, and a staircase going down that must lead to the other wards in St. Mungo’s. Faint voices and footsteps float up to him, getting softer as they move away from the staircase, and his curiosity almost leads him to follow the sound.

But he shakes the urge off, instead following the hall the rest of the way down. It forks at the end; the right leads to a lone door, and the left continues down a bit to a set of open double doors.

Beyond the doors is what seems to be a cafeteria—the scent of sausage and bacon reaches him even from down the corridor—and Draco wonders if this is where the food for the ward comes from. There are dozens of people already milling about, trays of food in hand. Most of them are wearing lime green robes, slumping a bit in exhaustion, and Draco assumes they just got off their shifts, or are about to start them.

He turns away from the cafeteria to inspect the lone door, hoping that none of the healers will see him—or at least think much of it.

The plaque beside the door reads _Potions Store_ , and he lets out a small sigh. So he went the right way, then. But now that he’s here, he has no idea how he’s going to get inside if the wards only accept the head healers.

With a shrug, he steps forward and tries the doorknob anyway. It can’t hurt to try.

His heart thrums with anticipation as he grips the doorknob—with no reaction from the magic. He turns it slowly—still nothing—and the door swings open. It creaks slightly, but other than that, there’s no sound, lights, or any sort of barrier deterring him from entering.

“Huh,” he mutters. Someone should probably be fired for putting up the new wards wrong, because they clearly forgot to close some sort of loophole that allows patients in.

Not that Draco’s complaining, because this benefits him nicely, but part of him can’t help but note incompetencies.

He steps into the storeroom, pulling the door shut with a click behind him. About twice the size of his cubicle, it’s larger than he expected it to be. There are multiple floor-to-ceiling shelves, the space between them very narrow, racks on the shelves holding hundreds of potions—maybe even a thousand.

On the ends of the shelves are categories, ranging from _General Healing_ to _Poison Control._

Hanging on the end of the nearest shelf ( _Pain and Sedation_ ) is a clipboard. Draco’s pulse quickens as he skims over it. There’s a list full of names signing off on potions, and he assumes that the head healers have to record whatever they take from the room. He spots Healer Soto’s name near the top.

Draco flips through the few pages, noting that the dates are all from the past week. The very last page is mostly empty, apart from a short list. He raises his eyebrows and takes a sharp breath—this is exactly what he’s looking for.

_Unaccounted For:_

_2 Bundimun Secretion_

_1 Calming Draught_

_2 Forgetfulness_

_2 Herbaria_

_1 Invigoration Draught_

_3 Love Potion Antidote_

He takes out his quill and notepad, quickly marking down the potions that are missing. He doesn’t know if the potions are related to any of the ingredients he sent Narcissa—if those were even ingredients—and he doesn't know what the next step is going to be, but it’s somewhere to start.

He puts the clipboard back on the hook, cracking the door open slightly and peering out into the hall to make sure no one is nearby.

There are still healers walking about the cafeteria, but none of them are even looking in Draco’s direction. He slips past the door, turning as he slowly pulls it closed.

A sense of overwhelming relief rushes over him. He’s gotten past the most risky part.

“Malfoy?” The voice comes from behind him, and a tight coldness immediately forms in the pit of his stomach. That voice is impossibly familiar, and the person it belongs to _knows_ him.

Draco spins around, heart in his throat. There, standing right behind him, is Harry Potter—all lime green robes, dark undereye circles and a scowl—and despite his expression, Draco’s heart thumps.

Because it’s Harry Potter. _The_ Harry Potter, who he’s read so much about.

And so far, Potter is the only person Draco knows he has a history with, apart from Narcissa. He hasn’t heard a single thing from or about any friends, so naturally has to assume that he didn’t even have any. But he knows about Potter—and Potter clearly knows about _him_.

“How did you get in there?” Potter asks, eyes narrowed, and the tone of his voice makes Draco stiffen.

He’s painfully reminded that he’s standing directly in front of the potions storeroom,which is a very compromising situation, especially considering that potions have been going missing.

“In where?” Draco asks, adopting his best ‘I have memory loss’ expression. He grasps at memories of Gilderoy and his open, trusting demeanor. He tries to relax the grip he has on his robe's sleeve, and judging by the way Potter’s eyes flick to his hand, it was obvious.

Potter’s scowl deepens.

“Look, I don’t know what you were doing in there, but you’re going to have to come with—” he stops speaking abruptly, eyes widening as he fully takes in Draco’s appearance. “Oh. You’re a patient.”

_And_ you’re _a bit slow on the uptake_ , Draco thinks.

“Oh, yes. My name is Draco Malfoy. Do you know how to get to the Janus Thickey ward? I can’t find it,” he says, aloof. It’s difficult to speak so lightly and openly past the pounding of his heart, but he holds fast to the image of Gilderoy.

It seems to work, because Potter stares at him, wide-eyed, as though he doesn’t believe Draco is actually here.

“ _Merlin_. What happened to you?” he mutters, probably more to himself than to Draco, so Draco doesn’t reply.

The snide voice in the back of his head reminds him that he _doesn’t_ know what happened—that he doesn’t know anything.

But _Potter_ does, doesn’t he?

Potter, who saved the entire wizarding world, and is now saving more lives as a Healer. Potter, who knew him when they were kids and saved his life. Surely, that has to mean _something_ , doesn’t it?

_Surely_ , Potter could at least tell him what happened when they were at Hogwarts together. He’ll want to help, and all Draco has to do is ask... Right?

Just then, a low buzzing starts in Draco’s ears, growing in pitch and volume with every passing second, and his vision blurs slightly around the edges.

The underlying sterile scent of the hospital sharpens until it’s all he can smell. It burrows into his head, his pulse throbbing in his temple, and his legs start to shake with the effort of standing.

Potter takes a step forward, eyebrows furrowed as he reaches for Draco, but falters. His hand falls back to his side, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Draco can’t quite make out the words through the ringing.

He realizes that this is yesterday’s sickness settling in. He squeezes his eyes shut against the spinning room, attempting to lean against the wall, but underestimates the distance.

Draco stumbles, his legs suddenly too weak to be able to support himself completely, and Potter cries out in alarm. He slides his arms beneath Draco’s to prevent him from sinking to the floor—and for a single moment, they’re chest-to-chest, Draco’s leg between Potter’s, breathing into each other’s necks.

Potter smells very much like the hospital—the lingering scent of illness over him—but beneath it is something musky and _warm_ that he can’t identify.

...and then the embarrassment hits him, harder and faster than the nausea, and wins out over the strange comfort he feels in Potter’s arms.

He shoves himself away, world lurching as he does, and inhales deeply through his nose. He doesn’t trust his stomach enough to open his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Potter asks, hands still outstretched slightly, as though afraid Draco might stumble again.

He gives a sharp, small nod in response, digging into his pocket until he grabs hold of the potion vial that Soto gave him. It’s cool in his hand, and he welcomes it. He quickly uncorks the vial and brings it to his lips, steeling himself to open his mouth and just _drink it_.

“Malfoy. What is that?” Potter’s tone is a warning, the hostility from earlier in his voice, but Draco downs the potion anyway. It’s intensely peppery, burning his throat and tongue as it goes down and he coughs, but the nausea disappears immediately. He sags a bit in relief.

“Where did you get that?” Potter asks, voice low and suspicious. Draco resists rolling his eyes.

“My healer gave it to me. It helps with my nausea,” he replies. It’s not even a lie, either.

“That wasn’t an anti-nausea potion,” Potter says. Draco simply stares at him for a few seconds, at a loss. Potter is _clearly_ denser than the papers make him out to be.

“My healer gave it to me,” Draco repeats, furrowing his eyebrows. “It makes my nausea go away.”

“Give the vial here,” Potter demands with a skeptical look, holding out his hand, palm up.

He drops the vial into Potter’s hand, hoping that none of his thoughts show on his face, but Potter isn’t even looking at him. His focus is on the vial, sniffing it and swirling it around, watching how the remaining potion clings to the sides of the glass.

Draco struggles to keep his irritation at bay. He liked Potter more in the papers: awkward in a strangely charming way, with his heart on his sleeve and endearingly blunt—which Draco realizes must be because everything he says in the papers is _edited_.

While the real Potter certainly is all of those things (with an added disregard for personal space and a penchant to assume he’s right), it’s not at all flattering. Really, the only pleasant thing Draco can think about him is that he’s attractive—and yeah, he smells nice and seems concerned about Draco’s wellbeing—but that’s irrelevant.

A few moments later, corners of his lips tightening, Potter slips the vial into his pocket. Draco’s fingers twitch. He automatically wants to take it back, barely refraining from opening his mouth to demand it.

_It’s just a vial._

“You’re looking for Janus-Thickey?” Potter asks abruptly, and Draco nods. “Who’s your healer?”

Draco thinks for a moment. He knows her face. And he _knows_ that he knows her name, and it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite grasp it for a few moments. Potter’s frown steadily deepens, either in concern or impatience—or neither.

“Soto,” Draco finally settles on. Potter raises his eyebrows, eyes darkening, before he sighs heavily.

“That explains why you’re so _different_ ,” he mutters, more to himself than Draco. Again. Draco grits his teeth.

“Pardon?” he asks, but Potter only shakes his head.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to your ward,” he says, setting off at a brisk pace before Draco can reply.

“Thank you,” Draco says. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen _now_. His privileges certainly will be stripped—he’ll probably have monitoring charms on him now, too. A long, grating lecture from Soto, for sure. He can hear her voice now, explaining all the reasons he’s stupid with an edge of concern to her words.

And what about Agnes and Rue? Would they get into trouble for letting him sneak around the hospital without Wagner knowing?

Draco’s stomach twists.

Potter stops just outside of the ward, turning to stare thoughtfully at him, eyes intense and piercing. Draco’s heart thumps under the gaze, and he has to look away.

He stares at the floor instead of at Potter. The tile clearly needs to be cleaned, and he wrinkles his nose at the dirt that’s gotten on his slippers. He acknowledges that he’s trying to think about other things than whatever Potter is going to say, but doesn’t try not to.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Potter asks softly, and the unexpectedness of the question startles Draco into meeting his eyes.

“You’re Harry Potter. I read about you in the papers. But no, I don’t remember meeting you at all,” he replies. He crosses his arms and flushes, but doesn’t look away. He feels vulnerable and open, but he refuses to _look_ vulnerable.

“Do you—remember a lot about _me_?” he asks. He licks his lips nervously, before continuing: “And about Hogwarts?

But Potter doesn’t reply, and the question hangs between them, heavy and painful. He looks Draco up and down—at Draco’s hair, which probably doesn’t look combed, to his dirtied slippers, to the wrinkles he didn’t manage to smooth out on his robes.

The corners of Potter’s lips turn down. After an uncomfortable moment, he lets out a breath.

“I don’t know what you were doing out here, and frankly, I don’t even want to deal with it,” Potter starts, sounding exhausted and completely, utterly sincere. “I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime. Good luck with your memories, Malfoy.”

Draco blanches, but Potter doesn’t even notice. He’s already turned away, ambling back down the corridor towards the staircase. He doesn’t even spare a glance over his shoulder.

Draco stares at the staircase for a long time after Potter disappears, waiting for his eyes to stop burning before he slips back into the ward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the plot thickens. 👀 Who knows what's going to happen next! Definitely not me.


	6. Nothing at All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much love to J, [lastontheboat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/works), for being an _amazing_ beta, and a MILLION thank yous to the lovely [robaroo72](https://robaroo72.tumblr.com/) for the drawings!!! ❤️ They're wonderful and I truly adore Robin for doing them. 
> 
> **Something to keep in mind:** this chapter peeks into 14-year-old Draco questioning/struggling with his sexuality, using slurs against muggle-borns, and there's the implication of publicly outing someone. I felt I should warn, as it could potentially be upsetting.

A parcel arrives for Draco later that morning, given to him by Soto along with a tray of food. The package is wrapped in heavy, matte green paper, tied with a black ribbon, a note tucked neatly beneath the bow. Draco runs his hands over the paper, the slightly rough texture almost nostalgic, in a way.

The weight and feeling of the package gives him the impression that it carries books. Maybe—he thinks—sign language books. So it’s no surprise that when he unties the ribbon and takes the note, it’s addressed to him and signed by Narcissa.

With a small smile, he unfolds the note. Written in tight cursive are the words: “ _These are the sign language books you asked for. I’ve also sent one of your journals from when you were a boy. I believe you were fourteen or fifteen. It might help. - Mother”_

Draco’s heart races. He had a _journal_. He could see his _own_ thoughts, exactly as he had them and when they happened. He eagerly unwraps the package, skimming over the covers of two sign language books, but puts them aside in favor of a worn, leather-bound journal.

It’s light and thin, a leather cord wrapped around it. The corners of the cover are curled in slightly, and the pages are faintly yellowing. He hesitates when he reaches to untie the cord, nervous for what he might find in the pages of the journal. He fears seeing too much or not being able to understand it, or even worse: finding empty pages, his hopes dashed to bits.

But questions burn within him—threaten to consume him—and this journal could answer them better than anything else. He has no idea what he was like, or who he was, or how much he’s changed by losing his memories.

He has a distinct feeling that he won’t like the answers, but he doesn’t want to discard this opportunity.

Hands shaking slightly, he unties the leather cord, lets it fall onto his lap, and opens the journal to the first page.

.oOoOo.

_18 August 1994_

_Mother bought me a new journal with a Thoughts-to-Parchment charm on it. I won’t even have to look at the parchment to record my thoughts — I just have to be touching it._

_Here’s to not needing a quill or ink._

_—_

_We’re about to go watch the World Cup. Father got us a box with the minister for magic—the best seats in the stadium. I’ll have the best view of the game. Krum will be playing. Not rooting for Bulgaria, myself, but Krum is a spectacular seeker. Bringing my Omnioculars, and hopefully I’ll be able to catch a few shots of him. If I watch it enough, maybe I’ll be able to improve my own flying._

_Father brought the peacocks with us to our tent. Nobody brings peacocks anywhere. Nobody. It’s so over the top, even for father. He must do these things just to embarrass me._

_—_

_Spotted Potter, Diggory, and the Weasel earlier. Potter looks at Diggory like he’s Merlin in the flesh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he fancies Diggory._

_Maybe he does. Not that it would be particularly surprising. Everybody fancies Diggory._

_Well, I don't._

_—_

_Got stuck with Potter in the seats. I don’t know how the Weasleys afforded it, but however they did it, I’m annoyed. I can feel Potter staring at the back of my head. The minister completely ignored me, but apparently goes “way back” with Potter._

_Of course he does. Saint Potter._

_—_

_The veelas didn’t affect me. They even affected father. But they didn’t get to Potter either — not a good sign. Mother keeps looking at me weird._

_Is something wrong with me?_

_—_

_Father disappeared before it happened. I know he was under one of those hoods. I’m terrified. Found Potter in the woods with Diggory, no Granger or Weasley in sight. I don’t even want to know._

_I hate that I’m worried about whether a mudblood and a blood-traitor are okay. But what would happen to father if something happened to them? _

_—_

_Using my wand to see right now. It’s pitch black. At least it’s quiet now. Where is mother?_

_Thought I heard someone’s voice. The sky is green._

_couldn’t stop myself from crying again_

_—_

_Mother found me. We lost the peacocks. Probably got trampled. I wish father wasn’t so selfish._

-x-

_20 August 1994_

_Mother tried to talk to me about it. I didn’t want to, but I feel horrible, so maybe I should’ve let her._

_Father still hasn’t come home yet. Mother assures me he’s fine, and he just has “business” to attend to._

_Fuck you too, father._

_Pansy sent me a very long, overly concerned letter. I sent a reply just to let her know that I’m fine. I hope she’ll stop owling me. She’s going to see me in less than two weeks, anyway._

_—_

_Mother gave me a book. I glanced through it. Something about veelas and sexual attraction and “the signs.”_

_Promptly tossed it out. I have enough to think about._

_Father came home._

-x-

_2 September 1994_

_Moody is insane._

_Everyone is calling me “ferret” now. Even Pansy joined in for a laugh. I told her that I have no problem turning her into a ferret to see how she likes it. She shut up._

-x-

_4 September 1994_

_Moody used the Unforgivables on spiders in class today. I’d never seen them before. It was… horrible. All of it was. Longbottom was in a state, Moody pulled him aside after class. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything about it. I wasn’t well either. I don’t like thinking about Aunt Bella, but seeing the Cruciatus Curse like that was… sickening. So I couldn’t say anything about Longbottom. Even when Greg and Vincent did. I have to have a line, don’t I?_

_The Imperius Curse was the worst. I can’t even believe that Moody put us under it. I’ve never been more humiliated or felt so violated. I suddenly didn’t care about anything, like I was lighter than air. If Moody had told me to hex myself or snap my wand in half, I would’ve done it and not cared. I would’ve done anything. How fucked up is that?_

_I would tell father about class, because that’s not okay, but I don’t want to speak to him or see him. He claims that it was used on him during the war, and I used to believe him, but I don’t know anymore. Not after the world cup._

_But Potter resisted it like it was nothing. Moody tried to make him jump, and I can’t get his expression out of my head. He looked so childishly determined. Or at least, that’s what I thought at first, and it would’ve been hilarious if he hadn’t gone and resisted it. I don’t know how he did it, either, but I hate that I almost rushed to help him when he hit his knee on the side of Moody’s desk._

_What’s wrong with me? Fuck._

_Moody has this weird fixation on Potter. I hoped he wouldn’t, but I don’t know what I expected from someone who took down dark wizards for a living. Of course he would love Potter._

-x-

_25 September 1994_

_Forgot about this. It got buried in the bottom of my trunk. Only remembered it because Blaise was snooping through my things and had a field day when he came across the journal. Hexed him six ways to Sunday for that, but at least he’ll leave my things alone now. Honestly._

_A mermaid has started swimming past the common room window sometimes and waves. It’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my life (sans blast-ended skrewts), but kind of in an endearing way. It seems pleasant enough._

_Moaning Myrtle has taken to floating in the water just outside the windows, watching us work and sleep. It’s hard to spot her sometimes, because the water is so murky, but what a fucking creep._

_Slytherin is a nightmare sometimes.  
  
_

_—_

_Got into a fight with Potter before potions today. I blew up Granger’s teeth. Mudblood deserved it._

_I’m serving my detention on Saturday. Probably won’t be telling father about this one._

_But—right. Not telling him about anything, anyways. I’ve already decided that he’s a selfish prick._

_Ugh._

_I’m in a worse mood now. I’m going to go bother Millicent and Vincent. It might cheer me up.  
_

_—_

_Of fucking course Potter is the second Hogwarts champion. How did he do it? Even Weasley’s upset. Hah. Potter didn’t even share the secret with him — not that Weasley would even have a chance of getting picked as a champion. _

_Potter is just so STUPID. How is that fair for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, isn’t Potter supposed to value that sort of thing? He’s so much of a Gryffindor that I’m surprised he found it in himself to do that. Not that I care._

_Everything always goes back to him. Potter-this, Potter-that. And he does everything to make sure he stays in the spotlight. He’s such a git. I thought he fancied Diggory, too, but apparently even people he fancies aren’t off limits to the one-upping._

_Potter just… stinks._

_...gonna bring that up with Pansy. That would make a good flier — or maybe a badge. We’ll figure it out._

-x-

_23 November 1994_

_Overheard Potter and Diggory in an empty classroom earlier. Apparently the first task is dragons. Walked away after their voices got too soft for me to hear. I’ve no idea what they were saying at that point (what could even be said except “thanks for giving up your only advantage over me”?) and didn’t want to risk getting caught eavesdropping._

_Kind of hilarious that Potter just now told Diggory, the day before the task._

_I’m… worried. Diggory will be fine, he’s a seventh year, but Potter won’t last two minutes with a dragon._

_I hope he doesn’t._

_—_

_That’s a lie. I lied. He’s the most obnoxiously selfless git I’ve ever met, but I don't want him to be burned. Or roasted. Or crushed. Or eaten. Or dismembered. Or —_

_Merlin help me._

-x-

_24 November 1994_

_Potter’s mad. A broom. He used his broom. Merlin. He could’ve died. I brought my Omnioculors. I didn't think I’d actually be using them, but I caught Potter’s dive for the egg. _

_I don’t want to rewatch it. But I guess it doesn’t matter, because it keeps playing in my head._

__

-x-

_1 December 1994_

_Potter fell asleep in History of Magic again. Which, of course he would. (And here I am, drawing him...)_

-x-

_10 December 1994_

_There’s going to be a Yule Ball. Pansy found me right after class and asked me to go with her, and it’s not like I could just say no. Even though I wanted to. I don’t have someone else in mind to go with, actually, but I don’t particularly want it to be her. It’s like taking my sister. _

_I’d rather go with Theo. At least he’s less of a brother and more of a friend, and he wouldn’t make any weird comments like Pansy probably will._

_Vincent and Millicent are going together. They’ve always been close, so I’m not the least bit surprised. It’ll be a pain when they get into an inevitable fight, though. Merlin knows the group will start taking sides, and it’ll be a complete mess, but at least Blaise will get some entertainment out of it._

_—_

_Mother sent a new set of dress robes. They’re very nice. Black, with green lining. Pansy said it’s the same shade as Potter’s eyes. She’s wrong, but I don’t want to start thinking about things like that. Why does she even know what color Potter’s eyes are, anyway?_

-x-

_13 December 1994_

_Mother sent a different set of dress robes. They’re white._

-x-

_18 December 1994_

_The Weasel just made an absolute fool of himself asking Delacour to the ball. Potter asked the Ravenclaw seeker. Both were rejected. According to Pansy’s “sources,” the Ravenclaw seeker is going with Diggory, and Delacour has standards. Ha. Serves them right._

_Maybe I was wrong about Potter fancying blokes. But it really doesn’t matter. Not at all. Nope._

_I doubt he’s going to find anyone now. Weasley will probably end up with Granger, at this rate — or maybe Potter will go with Weasley. It wouldn’t surprise me. Granger is a last-resort option. Pansy seems to think that she’s already got a date, though, and Blaise is starting to take bets, so we’ll see. One week to go._

-x-

_25 December 1994_

_Well. Potter went with Weasley. What a sight that was. Neither of them can dance at all, so the opening dance was generally bad and embarrassing to watch, if somewhat entertaining. Greg owes me 5 Galleons, but since Krum took Granger, I’ve lost them to Pansy. I really thought Granger was going to end up alone. She should have. How did that even happen, anyway?_

_I’m glad I wore the white robes. Potter’s were green. I hate him. I really do._

__

— 

_Pansy made a comment afterwards about Potter being gay. I already suspected that, but apparently it’s not common knowledge. Somehow. He was staring at Diggory all night — I was definitely right about that, then. It’s so obvious._

_Wish I could take back the support Diggory badges._

_You know… Rita Skeeter would probably be really interested in hearing about this. _

.oOoOo.

Draco shuts the journal with a snap, dropping it onto his bedside table and pushing away his disgust of the last few sentences he read. It’s no wonder that Potter didn’t want to see him again. He tries to put the sketches out of his mind, along with what they meant. They’re not _that_ important.

He runs over the words he wrote, processing them, trying to line up the events in the journal with the little information he’s learned from old _Prophet_ articles. He thinks about the peacocks at the World Cup, Diggory and Moaning Myrtle, the sour relationship with his father, the obvious feelings he had for Potter, ferrets and mermaids and dragons—everything.

But he can’t stay focused on any of it. In his mind, the words _imperius curse_ and _mudblood_ and _Rita Skeeter_ cling to his thoughts—followed by the soft, soft lines that make up how he once saw Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And something unexpected happens. 👀 Sorry to keep you waiting on the mystery of the potion. But don't worry, you'll learn all about it next chapter - along with some _other_ things. 😉 
> 
> I know this chapter was kind of different, but I hope it was enjoyable anyways! (Also yes I know this was kind of early to post, but it's 12am where I live so it's TECHNICALLY Monday. No complaints!! Only hugs.)


	7. Twill Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, I'm so very sorry for delaying this chapter! It did _not_ want to cooperate with me, so I just decided to let it do whatever it wanted (and I ended up stepping away from it for a bit for my sanity.) It starts off angsty, but I promise I won't leave y'all on a sad note. <3
> 
> Again, much love to J, lastontheboat, for the beta. You're the best! I don't know what I'd do without you.

_Missing potions: Bundimun Secretion, Calming Draught, Forgetfulness, Herbaria, Invigoration Draught, Love Potion Antidote._

_Related to the list on Narcissa’s letter? (Possible potion ingredients?)_

* * *

Draco doesn’t try to eat his breakfast when it comes. He leaves the tray on his bed, taking a set of fresh robes before stepping outside of his cubicle. He looks out the large window for a few minutes, the early morning light soft and grey, dark clouds forming and a few droplets of rain randomly hitting the glass.

Draco watches until the sky breaks and the rain falls more heavily, pounding against the roof and the window. He shuts his eyes, takes in the sound and loses his thoughts for a moment, before he shakes himself from it and walks to the bathroom.

Everyone’s curtains are closed, and Gileroy’s snoring is just audible over the rain. The rest of the ward is silent, even the newcomer, and Draco wonders if everyone else feels a heaviness in their chests too.

They’ve probably just gone back to sleep.

The walk to the loo isn’t long enough. He’s avoided entering it since he sicked in the toilet, nervous that the memory will make him nauseous again, but nothing is different when he walks in. Still the same sterile scent, every surface gleaming, and Draco feels... fine. Absolutely fine.

He sets his robes on the sink, carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror, and turns the shower tap on. Most of the other patients don’t use the shower—they don’t have to, when the healers can perform cleaning charms which get the job done a lot quicker than bathing.

But it’s privacy, and Draco likes the feeling of water over his skin.

He steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind him, sighing at the hot stream of water over his skin. It washes over his eyelids, his lips, down his neck and chest.

His _chest_. Without opening his eyes, he runs his fingers over the raised scars that cross over the crook of his neck, down to just below his navel. He doesn’t know how he got them, or how old they are, and can only assume it’s from the Aurors or the war. The first time he saw them, he couldn’t tear his eyes away—and much the same with his Dark Mark, which still mars his skin even though it’s faded.

He’s stopped looking at them, now. He doesn’t want to see them if he can’t have answers, and he’s too afraid to ask any questions.

He sighs and turns his focus to washing his hair. He tries not to think about anything except what he’s doing as he soaps up.

But all at once, in the safety of privacy, complicated twists of emotions grip his heart, grief and confusion and anger, so heavy and tight that they rise in his throat.

He thought that reading the journal would be a welcome insight into the person he used to be. He thought that he’d learn something crucial to what it means to be Draco Malfoy, that he would learn to be normal—to be _whole_.

Instead, he found everything he isn’t: a Draco who used words like _mudblood_ and _blood-traitor_ , a Draco who knew what a veela is and what a mermaid looks like, with a million experiences that made him who he was and a thousand hours to process them.

There was never any hope of returning to that Draco, and though he doesn’t want to at all anymore, the loss still weighs on him. _He—_ the only Draco that exists anymore—doesn’t have a million experiences, and certainly doesn’t understand the ones he once had. _He_ has three weeks spent inside four off-white walls, an introduction to his own mother, an unsolved case, and exactly one conversation with Potter.

_Potter_.

Draco sucks in a sharp breath. The drawings of Potter flash in his mind’s eye—drawn with such care and softness. Of everything in the journal, the one thing he _did_ understand were his feelings for Potter.

And in some ways, it doesn’t seem right. Potter’s an arse, and it’s clear to him that their “school rivalry” was worse than just some petty fights. Draco was horrible to him. It explains Potter’s immediate reaction to seeing Draco in St. Mungo’s, at least.

But, on the other hand, it’s exactly as he wrote in the journal: everything seems to go back to Potter. The only history Draco knows anything about is with Potter—and _Potter_ is the one he’s seen, _Potter_ is the one he asked for help. He doesn’t know who Pansy, Vincent, or Blaise are, or if they were friends after Hogwarts, or where they are now.

Draco doesn’t even understand the kinds of magic described in the journal—magic that a 14-year-old is supposed to be able to know.

Shame creeps up his neck, and he does his best to ignore it. None of this is his fault.

He rinses the shampoo from his hair and forces himself to think of nothing else for the rest of the shower, even when his fingertips accidentally catch over the jagged scars on his chest, and he scrubs his left forearm so hard it’s painful.

Once he steps out of the shower, he dries himself off, ruffles his hair with a towel. He carefully hangs the towel on one of the hooks on the wall, turns to grab his robes from the sink, and his eyes are pulled to the movement in the mirror.

His reflection holds him in place for a moment—shockingly white-blond hair, flushed skin, wide grey eyes—and he tears his gaze away, clutching his robes to his chest. Heat rises on his neck, in his eyes.

A nagging voice in his head asks that if he has no problem looking at old pictures of himself, why should this bother him?

But Draco shakes the thought away. He doesn’t need to explain to himself, of all people, the difference between looking at _Draco Malfoy_ , and looking at _Draco_.

He dresses quickly, eager to leave the room, and relief washes over him when he shuts the door behind him. The ward is mostly silent, save for the rain pounding on the roof, and Rue shuffling slowly from behind her curtains to sit by the door. He gives her a small wave and a gentle smile, finding some comfort in routine, and her lips twitch in response.

She quietly walks past him, slippers scuffing on the floor, and Draco listens to the sound softening as he nears his cubicle. He almost wants to glance back at her before pulling his curtains closed behind him, but doesn't.

He looks at the journal and the sign language books on his bedside table, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He'll read the sign language books later, but he doesn't know if he can open the journal again.

With a sigh, he removes his breakfast tray from his bed and places it in the armchair, slipping under the blankets and just listening to the rain. Rhythmic, soft pattering.

It's calming—just him, and the rain—and things don’t seem _that_ awful.

In the warmth of his blankets, the soft pattering of rain, and the dull light of early morning, he’s easily lulled to sleep.

.oOoOo.

The rain has picked up into a full-blown thunderstorm. It falls in sheets over the roof, the sound like waves. Occasionally, the thunder rolls in the distance, followed by forked bolts of lightning, and Draco absent-mindedly starts to count. _One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand_ … _Crack!_

He shakes his head— _silly_ —and focuses on what he’s doing. He’s bent slightly over his desk as he writes something, the quill scratching on the parchment.

_D-R-A-C-O_

Neat, purposeful, stylistic cursive. The loops on his R and O curl elegantly. The green ink shines in the light of the fire before it dries, color lightening slightly. He skims over the letter once more, making sure it sounds how he wants it to.

_Mother… safe… trust… safe… love you…_

Draco licks his lips. Hesitates, for a moment, before turning the parchment over and scratching a list down. Potion ingredients. He scratches the words down, folds the parchment, and tucks it into an envelope.

He has to send it quickly. He’s expecting company any minute now.

Anaise hoots from her perch when he approaches her. She wearily eyes the storm outside. Draco isn’t keen on sending her out in this weather, either, but she’ll fare. She’s a strong flier—more so than any owl Draco’s known.

He gently strokes her tawny feathers, hoping to reassure her. She leans into it for a moment, before she sticks her foot out obediently.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tying the letter to her foot, and resumes stroking her feathers. “Take this to mother for me, and stay there. Ask for treats. I don’t want you flying back in this.”

Anaise hoots softly. She seems worried.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers with a small smile, “You’ll be okay.”

Anaise seems skeptical, but accepts it. He steps towards the window, removing his wand from its holster as he does. The window opens with a flick of his wrist. Stray drops of water land on the window sill.

“Now, off with you,” he says affectionately. She hoots and spreads her wings, launching off her perch. She lands on his shoulder for a brief moment, then flies off into the storm.

He watches her go. Almost immediately, she disappears in the darkness of the night. Another flick of his wrist, and the window is shut and the water is gone.

He glances around his study, at the roaring fire, the shadows thrown over the bookshelves and the armchairs. This evening’s tea is still on the coffee table. He’ll have to take the tray back to the kitchens later, but for now, he casts a few simple charms to do most of the cleaning. His company won’t mind.

Just then, the wards go off. A high, pleasant chiming. There’s someone at the front door, asking for permission to enter, and relief washes over Draco.

Finally. He was getting impatient.

He strides across the study, footsteps pattering softly until he reaches the end of the rug, when the heels of his shoes start clicking hard on the wood. He slips his wand back into his holster and reaches for the door handle, swinging it open and stepping into the hall.

He’s greeted by ivory and pale blue walls. The sterile scent hits him like a wall, mingling with something like sausage and eggs. This is St. Mungo’s, he knows. He’s very familiar with it. He pauses, unease settling into his chest—he shouldn’t _be_ here—before it’s dispelled completely.

He’s perfectly allowed to be here. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be, really.

His feet start to move without him asking them to. That’s funny. He looks down at them, noting that his slippers are dirty. Was he wearing slippers?

Hmm. Yes, he must have been. _How else would they have gotten on my feet?_ he reasons.

He looks around as he walks, feeling quite pleasant—lighter than air—though not really sure where he’s going. He knows he has to go somewhere, though. Wherever _somewhere_ is.

His robe pockets are nice and full, he notes. He wonders what he’s carrying. Maybe his other pair of shoes. But he doesn’t really feel like looking to see.

He passes by a stairwell. There are people coming up, and they don’t spare him a glance, like he’s not even there. He doesn’t mind all that much.

He approaches a set of double doors. This is it, he knows. He’s arrived _somewhere_. He wants to reach out and open the doors, step inside and sink back in bed, but not really. Because no, no, this is all wrong, what’s he doing?

His steps falter, and the hand reaching for the door knob falls to his side. His throat tightens, and his eyes burn.

“I’m confused…” he whispers, drawing his hands to his chest and wringing them. _So confused…_ who is he again?

“Malfoy,” someone says behind him, and he spins around. Standing behind him is a man in lime green robes, round glasses and deep shadows under green eyes, wearing a sneer. “You’re Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

“Pardon?” he asks, voice quivering. Not _Death Eater_ Draco Malfoy. Not _entitled, narcissistic, cruel_ Draco Malfoy. Not that one. Anyone but that one.

“‘fraid you _are_ that Draco Malfoy,” the green-eyed man says. “Look at your arm if you don’t believe me. You’ll see, the Dark Mark will be right there.”

He sucks in a ragged breath and tugs up the sleeve of his robe with shaking hands. _Can’t be true, can’t be me, can’t—_

But there, on his forearm, is the Dark Mark, blurry and washed out, proof of the person he is and the wrongs he’s committed. Bile rises in his throat.

He really _is_ Draco Malfoy.

And as he watches, the mark starts to burn slightly, the pain steadily growing with each passing second, and Draco gasps. It darkens until it’s pitch black against his skin, the snake slithering through the skull with a soundless hiss.

The snake continues to hiss and writhe. The burning intensifies until Draco’s vision starts to blur from his tears. He clutches his wrist, willing it to stop, _please_ , but it only worsens. He cries out as the pain reaches unbearable levels—more and more and more and Draco can’t _take this_.

The corners of his vision darken, the world starting to spin, and then everything is black.

.oOoOo.

Draco shoots up in bed, drenched in sweat and heart racing. He immediately tears at his sleeve, his entire body trembling, but there’s only the normal faded Dark Mark. Nothing moving, no burning sensations. He falls back onto his pillows with a relieved sigh, closing his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths.

It was all a dream. Thank Merlin.

He takes a few calming breaths, willing his pulse to slow and his muscles to relax, before he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The sun is up completely now, and the rain has stopped. The breakfast tray is gone from the armchair—Soto most likely took it—and Draco’s stomach growls.

He’s starving. He’s surprised that he didn’t wake up when Soto took the tray from the armchair—and he would’ve welcomed being woken up. He glances at the clock and sighs when he sees that it’s eleven in the morning. Did he really sleep that long?

Despite the slight disappointment he feels at losing so much daylight, the bright side is that he doesn’t have to wait that long until he can eat lunch.

He pours himself a glass of water, sipping absently as his mind goes back to the dream. Now that he tries to recall the details, he can’t remember much of it at all, or even what made him wake up. Something about a storm, and Potter?

Strange.

There’s something nagging at him that he can’t put his finger on, like something he’s supposed to be doing or remember, but he has no luck in thinking of what it could be. He knows he’ll quickly grow frustrated if he thinks too much about it, so he tries to focus on something else instead.

Downing the rest of his water, he reaches for the letter Narcissa gave him and for his notepad, the latter carefully hidden beneath the stack of newspapers.

He’s not sure that he’s going to find anything useful, considering he doesn’t quite know what to make of the letter Narcissa gave him, but he has two lists now. It wouldn’t hurt to compare them.

He looks at them side-by-side, skimming over the words, looking for anything that could possibly be related. His heart leaps when he sees that “herbaria” appears on both lists. If nothing else, at least he knows now that the list Narcissa gave him is definitely related to potions, and he would reason that they’re ingredients.

Why would he send Narcissa a list of potion ingredients? He wanted her to give the list back to him eventually—but why? There’s something he should know about those ingredients, and for whatever reason, he didn’t find it necessary to include in the letter.

Whatever the case, it won’t hurt to ask Narcissa if she knows the significance of the potion ingredients. Maybe he could ask to borrow a potions book, as well, and pass it off with Soto as trying to spark a few memories.

He flips to a new page on his notepad, reaches for his quill, and starts writing a letter to Narcissa. He tries not to focus on how formal or informal he sounds, and very nearly writes “Narcissa” instead of “mother” at the beginning of the letter, but it’s not a disaster.

He rereads it multiple times, trying to decide whether or not it’s good enough to send, or if things are vague enough for only Narcissa to understand in case someone else reads it, and eventually decides that it’ll do.

_Mother,_

_Thank you for the journal. It provided a lot of insight into how I ended up making certain choices, and who I was in general. I’m grateful to you for allowing me to read it. Thank you again._

_I didn’t even know I could draw. I’ll have to try it again, though I’m not sure I’ll be any good at it now._

_I did have some questions I was hoping you could answer. Would you happen to know anything on the list of potion ingredients? If so, was there something especially important to me about herbaria? If it’s not an inconvenience to you, I would appreciate it if you could send some more of my old things — textbooks and the like — that might help fill in some of the gaps._

_I hope you’re doing well. It was lovely getting to see you. Would you want to visit again soon?_

_Much love,_

_Draco_

He carefully rips the paper from the notepad and folds it, setting everything on the bedside table. He’ll give the letter to Soto later, when she brings lunch by. There’s not much else he can do about this until he gets a response from Narcissa.

He eyes his journal with a frown, unfortunately still curious about the rest of it, but opts not to open it again. He’s seen enough. Too much, really.

Sighing, he opens the bedside table drawer and slides the journal in. Out of sight, out of mind, after all. His hand lingers beside the table, pausing for a second before he grabs the sign language books. Now is as good a time as any to learn how to communicate with Agnes this way—even if it’s just saying something small.

He flips the larger of the two books open, settling into the armchair and balancing the book on his lap. The first few pages are an introduction, followed by the first chapter, which covers the alphabet, and Draco finds the chart for left-handed learners. He tries his best to mimic the pictures and memorize each sign, occasionally jotting down notes and reminders in the margins.

For now, he supposes that if he gets good enough at the alphabet, then he could at least spell out a hello to Agnes.

As he makes his way through it, he somehow loses track of time, and eventually Soto stops by with lunch. Her expression is soft when she sees him with the sign language book in his lap, attempting to sign the letter K, and Draco flushes as he sets everything aside.

“Lunch time, love,” Soto says gently, placing the tray at the foot of his bed.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning closer to the bed to get a better look at the tray. To his disappointment, it’s only a simple sandwich and chips. They’re probably not even salted, because they never are—and they didn’t provide any on the side this time, either. Draco deflates, shoulders slumping.

“Oh, don’t look so down,” Soto laughs. “Luckily for you, I happen to have some sweets on me that I might be inclined to share.”

Draco pretends to think about it as Soto regards him with an amused expression.

“What kind?” he asks curiously, a smile playing on his lips.

“A variety,” Soto replies, grinning now. Draco hums.

“Well, in that case…” he says, trailing off, and Soto chuckles easily. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of colorfully wrapped candies, depositing them onto the lunch tray. They clack pleasantly against the thin metal.

“Thank you,” Draco says, genuinely.

“You’re very welcome. Don’t eat them all at once, love,” Soto says with a wink. She turns to leave, and Draco suddenly remembers to give her the letter.

“Oh! Healer Soto, before I forget: I wrote a letter to my mother,” he says, grasping the folded paper from his bedside table and holding it out. “Could you owl it to her?”

Soto looks back and smiles warmly, taking the letter from him and slipping it into her pocket.

“Of course! That’s lovely, Draco. I’m happy to see you keeping up a correspondence with her,” she says kindly, seeming genuine, and Draco warms.

“Thank you,” he says. Soto’s eyes are soft when she pats his shoulder, lingering momentarily, before she leaves him to his lunch and sign language books.

Like he thought, the chips are cold and bland and disappointing, and the candies Soto left are… strange, to say the least. They’re a little oddly shaped, like Soto made them herself, which is kind of sweet if she actually did and was willing to share. But the weird thing is the flavors—one tastes extremely minty (and he promptly spits it out after his eyes start to water), another is something citrus-y that he can’t pinpoint, and one is like lavender and camomile.

They’re... pleasant, he supposes—excepting the peppermint one—but he quickly tires of the flavors and doesn’t finish any of them. He can’t help but marvel over how Soto just carries that many around.

Definitely didn’t make up for the chips, but he can admit that they were interesting.

The rest of the day passes predictably. Agnes keeps quiet, Gilderoy audibly chatting away to her. An unfamiliar deep voice chimes in every once in a while, and Draco assumes it’s the new patient. It’s probably rude of him not to introduce himself, but he feels less and less like socializing as the day goes on.

His thoughts wander between Potter, herbaria, drawings, and scars—and once lights go out at ten that night, his heavy eyelids and the comfortable silence are the only reason he’s able to escape the thoughts. His exhaustion is a welcome relief.

Draco wakes up at dawn the next morning feeling somehow _more_ tired than before, but nevertheless gets out of bed and showers. He hates the thought of losing daylight, especially after sleeping so much the day before.

He passes Rue on his way back to his cubicle, as he usually does. And she gives him the faintest of smiles, as _she_ usually does. Things are seeming to fall back into routine, and with no nausea, run-ins with Potter, or things to do about the potions thief for now, he settles into his armchair with the sign language book.

He decides that today, he’ll sign hello to Agnes and introduce himself to the new patient. There’s nothing better to do while waiting for Narcissa’s reply, first of all—and secondly, it would distract him from the odd sense of unease in his chest. As if something bad is about to happen.

Shortly after breakfast that morning, he double and triple checks that he’s signing “hello” correctly before he’ll visit Agnes. It would be embarrassing to do it wrong—even if Agnes would probably appreciate the effort—and he’d rather avoid his horrible blush that always shows just how embarrassed he gets.

He puts on his slippers, noting that they’re dirty and he’ll have to ask Soto for a cleaning charm later, but his plans are rudely interrupted by a loud argument starting at the end of the ward. A door slams, and Draco immediately freezes his movement towards the curtain as he listens to two voices steadily rise.

“Wait!” It’s Soto, alarm and desperation and anger clear in that one word. Draco instantly feels on edge. “You can’t just _do_ this!”

There’s a reply too soft to make out. The voice, deep and strangely familiar, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It can’t possibly be who he thinks it is...

“But I’ve been the head healer here for _years_ —Healer Potter, you can’t do this,” Soto splutters, and Draco’s stomach knots. _Potter’s_ here.

“Look,” Potter starts, voice rising over Soto’s, “I understand that you’ve run Janus-Thickey for a long time. But like I already said: you’re being demoted, and unless you want your healing license suspended, you’ll have to accept this.”

Soto is being _demoted_ —and by _Potter_?

Draco edges towards his curtains, pulling them aside slightly so he can peer out into the ward. He notes, with a small shake of his head, that Agnes and Gilderoy are doing the same, both from her cubicle. He’s startled to see an unfamiliar face with them, a wizard with a gaunt face and dark hair, before he realizes it must be the new patient.

He can’t help but think about the absolute lack of discretion on the healers’ parts.

He slips out of his cubicle to the side of Rue’s, peering around her curtains to watch Potter and Soto at the front of the ward. Soto has her back to him, hands on her hips, and Potter is directly across from her. He’s nearly a head taller than she is, and Draco ducks back around the curtains when it occurs to him that Potter could probably see him.

Their voices grow too soft to hear from across the ward, and Draco mulls over what he _did_ manage to overhear. He can’t possibly imagine how or why Potter managed to demote Soto. Surely, he can’t just do that over nothing.

And— _surely_ —it _is_ nothing. A gross abuse of power, or there’s a mistake, but it’s nothing valid.

He retreats back to bed with a frown, picking up his sign language book once again, but it’s pointless. He can’t focus, and after a few minutes, he can hear a set of heavy footsteps nearing his cubicle. He doesn’t recognize them, so it’s either the new patient, or Merlin forbid, _Potter_.

Someone knocks on the rod of his curtains, and Draco grimaces.

“Come in,” he calls. He’s sure the frustration is evident in his voice.

The curtains are pushed aside and—lo and behold—Potter steps through, his expression like something sour is in his mouth. The circles under his eyes are less prominent, and his hair is a little more under control, but otherwise, he looks exactly as he did yesterday morning.

Draco scowls. Last _he_ knew, Potter never wanted to see him again.

“Morning,” Potter greets him shortly. Draco stares at him in disbelief. Morning?

He gives a tight nod. “Potter.”

Potter clears his throat awkwardly.

“Look—I’m sure you overheard, but Soto isn’t the head healer here anymore, which means she’s no longer _your_ healer, either. I’m taking over both of those positions,” he says. Draco’s eyebrows shoot up, and Potter winces.

“I’m sorry, what?” he says, affronted. This can’t be happening. Just yesterday morning, Potter didn’t want anything to do with him, but now he’s here as Draco’s _healer_?

Potter inhales sharply, obviously irritated. Draco quirks an eyebrow. What did Potter expect?

“I’m taking over as your healer,” Potter repeats, and Draco scowls at the hard tone of his voice.

“Taking over. Right,” he says bitterly. Potter takes a slow breath and exhales steadily, gaze turned towards the ceiling.

It’s clear how difficult it is for Potter to remain professional—and even if Draco isn’t really helping, Potter has surely had unfriendly patients before. And besides, _Potter_ was the one who chose to “take over” for Soto, after all, knowing full well the position it would put him in.

“Right,” he replies through gritted teeth.

There’s a tense moment of silence between them. Potter’s eyes are hard when he looks back at Draco, seeming to say a lot of things that Draco doesn’t understand.

“Why did you even demote her?” he asks, breaking the silence.

Potter lets out a drawn-out sigh, glancing around the cubicle for a brief moment before he sits in the armchair, elbows on knees. He produces two vials from his pocket.

Draco eyes them skeptically, wondering how this could relate to his question, until he recognizes one as the vial he had yesterday morning. It’s completely empty now, the glass tinted the same shade of green as the potion it held yesterday. The other vial holds a teal potion, bubbling slightly and glinting in the light.

“This,” Potter starts, holding up the empty vial, “wasn’t an anti-nausea potion.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Not _this_ again.

Potter scowls, but continues, “It was a cure for common poisons. Healer Soto took the wrong potion, and it was Cassandra’s job to identify those kinds of errors, but she gave it to you without realizing. All of you were lucky that there weren’t any adverse effects to taking a cure you didn’t need.”

Draco takes a moment to process the words, nodding slowly. He supposes that _does_ sort of make sense—even if he doesn’t understand how Potter was in the position to demote people. Still, something doesn't add up about the potions. He pushes the thought aside for later, when Potter isn’t sitting directly across from him.

“You know Cassandra?” he asks, not inclined to say anything about the potion, before he realizes Potter said Cassandra’s job _was_ —in the past tense. “Wait. You _fired_ her?”

Potter raises an eyebrow, aloof. “No.”

Draco bristles at the lack of explanation, as if Potter doesn’t think he needs one.

“Well if you didn’t fire her, what _did_ you do?” he retorts. Potter gives a heavy sigh, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. She’s only repeating training,” he says, fixing Draco with an unamused look.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Draco says defensively. He’s not quite sure why he’s defending her, considering he barely knows her—though if he’s honest, it’s probably because he just doesn’t want to agree with Potter.

“Look, Malfoy. Something like this slipping past _one_ person is a mistake. But anything more is getting dangerously close to incompetence, and we can’t afford that,” Potter contends, and despite not previously having much thought on it, Draco’s blood _simmers_.

A mistake is a mistake, Draco wasn’t even hurt by the potion, and Soto is certainly _not_ incompetent. Tired, and maybe overworked, but not incompetent.

“How black and white,” he mutters, tone venomous. Potter’s nostrils flare.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps, and Draco opens his mouth to make a scathing reply, before Potter cuts him off. “Right, well, I have a job to do. Seeing as I’m your new healer, I need to ask you some questions and perform a few diagnostic charms.”

Draco purses his lips. Bites his tongue. He doesn’t like the idea, but at least it makes _sense_. “Fine.”

“It’s standard procedure,” Potter says unnecessarily, like Draco is putting up a fight, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m aware,” he replies flatly, Potter’s expression souring further. He lays back onto his bed with a small sigh, shifting a bit to get comfortable. “Get it over with, then.”

Potter stands from the armchair, and Draco’s throat tightens slightly when he pulls out his wand. It never bothers him when Soto has her wand around him. But something about Potter having a wand pointed at him leaves him… nervous.

Regardless, he wills himself to relax. He doubts Potter would hurt him—here, at least, and as his healer. Even Potter couldn’t get away with that.

Potter waves his wand in a swooping pattern, muttering under his breath. Draco expects the sensation of the diagnostic charm to be uncomfortable, because it’s _Potter_ casting the spell, but it’s not. It’s… pleasantly warm—almost _too_ warm. It spreads from the center of his chest, to his fingertips, to his toes. It makes him feel safe, in a way.

He feels himself relax completely, almost against his will. It’s so unlike what he was expecting, and so calming, that he can’t help his eyes falling shut, and all his tension and irritation slips away from him. He absently thinks that he could fall asleep, if this continues.

But a moment later, the heat fades, and Draco slowly comes back to himself, opening his eyes. Potter is penciling something on a small notepad, seeming amused, lips quirked and an eyebrow raised. Draco swallows roughly and sits up, avoiding looking in Potter’s direction, a flush climbing his neck.

_How_ exactly did he let himself do that?

“Tired?” Potter asks wryly.

Draco’s flush deepens. “Not at all.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Potter’s tone could practically be _teasing_ , if it wasn’t for the fact that they were arguing not five minutes ago, and Draco doesn’t understand what could possibly have turned Potter’s mood away from hostile.

“Was that even a diagnostic charm?” Draco grumbles, smoothing his robes and still refusing to actually look at Potter.

“I can assure you, it was,” Potter replies, tone oddly restrained. Draco eyes him suspiciously—and now _Potter_ is the one avoiding looking at him. He tucks his notepad and pencil into his pockets, patting them down for a second, before he continues, “Right, well. I have to introduce myself to my other patient.”

Draco gets the impression that he’s a terrible liar, and he’s not sure whether to be annoyed that Potter is clearly lying, or smug that he can tell. Certainly curious about why he’s lying, at least.

“You’re not going to ask me any questions?” Draco asks easily, cocking an eyebrow.

“Er, another day,” Potter says. And, yes, Draco is definitely more smug and reluctantly amused than annoyed, now. It’s something about how Potter’s glance darts from his knowing look, like he’s embarrassed about lying—or embarrassed that Draco can tell.

“I’ll pencil it in,” he says sarcastically, and Potter grimaces. Really, he wears everything on his sleeve.

“Brilliant. Er, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Potter says, and he turns to leave, his robes swishing a bit. Draco hesitates before he clears his throat, wanting to voice something that he still doesn’t understand.

“Look, Potter, I need to know, why are you here? I thought you had enough of me.”

He hopes that the slight twist in his heart can’t be heard in his voice, and thankfully, Potter doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he licks his lips and turns his head away, seeming like he’s thinking about how to answer the question.

“Well, unfortunately for the both of us, I couldn’t let the potion go without investigating it,” he finally says. “So now you’re stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. He _could_ point out that Potter is the head of the department now, and he could easily make someone else Draco’s healer, but… he doesn’t want to. Something about Potter’s expression warns against it, and Draco’s own curiosity about Potter makes him bite his tongue.

He hums, turning away from Potter in a sort-of dismissal, reaching for his sign language books. “So we are.”

He can feel Potter’s eyes lingering heavily on him, sending a flush across his skin, but he doesn’t look up. He holds his breath, and a moment later, Potter leaves the cubicle without a word—leaving Draco to wonder if they’re almost _cordial_ now.

He thinks about Potter's expressions, the tension in his posture, the way his eyes seem to burn any time Draco opens his mouth… No, definitely not cordial, he thinks, but maybe they _could_ be, in time. They are “stuck” together, after all.

An unfamiliar mix of feelings swirls in Draco’s chest, and for once while thinking about Potter, he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh Drarry things are happening! Yay! Only took six chapters to get here. *sweats*


	8. Historiam Memoriae Converso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My OC swooped in and stole the chapter from me, whoops. It’s theirs now. And because I love them, I just let it happen. Hope you don't mind. :D 
> 
> In other news, my laptop bit the dust, so hurray for that (about a quarter of this was written on my phone, so I apologize if any weird errors came from that). I think it's safe to say that updates from now on will come every _other_ week. 😅 And once again, the lovely J beta'd this for me, so much love to him! ❤

_Potter didn’t cast a diagnostic charm? Find out what that’s about._

_The potion I took wasn’t an anti-nausea potion, so why did it work? Could I have been poisoned? Was it some kind of placebo effect?_

* * *

The next two days bring rain and listlessness as Draco waits for Narcissa’s response to arrive, spending his time going over sign language and the case. His mood is worsened by the fact that he hasn’t really interacted with anyone since Potter became his healer, and he’s starting to miss the friendly banter with Agnes and Gilderoy.

But mostly, his irritability is because Soto never came to visit after she was demoted, not even to say goodbye or apologize for accidentally giving him the wrong potion. She doesn’t go to see Gilderoy, either, for all the years she was his healer.

Really, it’s as if they never existed in her hemisphere at all.

And Potter, unsurprisingly, is far more than lacking in the warmth that Soto brought. Instead, he brings clipped words, weighted statements, and confusing signals that Draco has trouble deciphering. On the surface, there’s the obvious irritation and distrust, and Draco doesn't want to consider what lies beneath that.

Thankfully, Potter largely avoids Draco, save for daily check-ins and lunch-bringing, and Draco is torn between relief and annoyance. On one hand, they aren’t exactly on good terms with each other, and he doesn’t particularly _want_ to see Potter when he’s already on edge. On the other, Draco craves the stimulation of their arguments—mostly about the spell Potter used on him—and the way Potter has begun to speak to him like an equal, rather than a child like Soto did.

If nothing else, Potter at least seems to be a competent healer, and has shown that he knows what he’s _not_ capable of doing, too—he’s been adamant to bring a memory specialist to see both Draco and Gilderoy, and Draco has a meeting with the healer later in the afternoon.

To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. He has no idea what to expect from the healer, or the meeting. Narcissa’s warning not to see a brain specialist weighs on him, but he reasons that there must be a difference between a memory and a brain specialist, right?

And despite the way his chest tightens at the thought of potentially uncovering more about his past, he supposes he’ll have to start asking questions eventually.

Draco frowns, shakes the thought away, and tries to focus on the book on his lap. He’s still trying to learn how to sign the letter K, even though it’s not necessary to know at the moment. It really only bothers him because his hand doesn’t want to move that way.

He’s interrupted by a sharp knock on his curtains. Draco sets the book aside and glances at the clock—lunch time—and knows it’s undoubtedly Potter on the other side of his curtains.

“Come in,” he calls with a heavy sigh.

Potter pushes past the curtains, lunch tray floating beside him, and silently directs the tray to Draco’s bedside table with a flick of his wrist.

That’s the biggest thing that irks Draco—how casually Potter uses wandless magic around him, knowing that he can’t perform any spells himself. Frustration curls in his stomach.

He furrows his brow, and decidedly doesn’t comment on it. Best to leave it be.

“You have a letter,” Potter says, producing a folded piece of parchment from his pocket, holding it out to Draco so the wax seal is visible. A perfect circle, unbroken, and obviously from Narcissa.

“You didn’t read it? I’m surprised,” Draco drawls, taking it from Potter with barely a glance to his face. He’s afraid his eyes might linger on the shadows under Potter’s eyes—or worse, his lips as he speaks, which is becoming an unfortunate habit anytime Potter is around.

“Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to breach other people’s privacy. But if I _had_ read it, you wouldn’t be able to tell,” Potter quips, giving Draco a dark look.

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “It’s called being _curious_ about what’s going on in other people’s lives, Potter. At least I don’t use random spells on people and lie about it.”

Potter doesn’t seem surprised that Draco still hasn’t let that go.

“You don’t use spells on _anyone_ ,” he points out quickly. Draco winces—that’s a low blow—and hopes Potter didn’t notice.

Unfortunately, it seems that he did, because his expression turns uncomfortable and apologetic.

“Sorry, I didn’t think. If it bothers you, I’ll stop using my wand so much,” he says, stumbling over the words. And despite how awkwardly it was delivered, Draco’s heart flips at the (albeit poor) apology, and the thought that Potter would be willing to stop just because it might bother him.

“How kind of you,” Draco mutters sarcastically. Potter stares at him for a moment, probably asking himself why he even attempts to be nice, before he rolls his eyes.

“You’re such a git,” he sighs.

“Tch, now you’re resorting to name calling? What are we, twelve?” Draco asks, lip twitching. Potter scratches his nose, and stares off to the side, lips twitching.

“Ferret,” he mutters under his breath.

“Moron."

Impossibly, Potter’s lips pull into a reluctant smile. He glances at Draco, a gleam in his eye that Draco can’t pinpoint the meaning of. But Draco's mouth goes dry—Potter's eyes seem to burn—and he flushes at the eye contact. Nothing else is said between them before Potter abruptly clears his throat.

“Oh, right,” he starts. “The memory specialist will be here around five. I’m staying overnight, so I’ll be here to introduce you to them.”

Draco opens his mouth. Closes it when he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he nods, and Potter nods along with him, and it’s all so painfully awkward.

At last, Potter bids him goodbye, and Draco tears open Narcissa’s letter as he tries to push that interaction out of his mind. He's not sure why he's so flustered, or even stranger, why he's in a _better_ mood than he was before.

The letter appropriately pulls his attention to other things. It reads:

_Draco,_

_I’m glad to hear that the journal was helpful, darling. I was concerned some parts might upset you — I’m relieved to know they didn’t. And yes, you were a wonderful artist. You put a lot of time into developing your skills. I believe you started to sell your work after the war, before you went into the Aurors. If you want to see more of it, I wouldn’t be opposed to finding some of your paintings._

_Unfortunately, I don’t know much about herbaria, or the list you asked about. I don't have many of your textbooks anymore, either. I fear I'm not of much help there, and I apologize._

_I would love to come and visit you again. Tomorrow, perhaps?_

_Love,_

_Mother_

Draco furrows his brow, lips pursed. Well, the lack of an answer about herbaria is disappointing. He'll have to figure it out some other way.

Maybe he should have asked for any book on potions. Narcissa surely could have provided one if he'd only asked differently.

He's still frowning slightly by the time he's done writing his reply. It's quite short, simply thanking her and expressing that it would be lovely to see her tomorrow, adding that he would like to see some of his old artwork if possible.

Because Potter will remain in the ward overnight, for whatever reason, Draco opts to keep the letter to himself until after he's met with the memory specialist. He has time, and doesn't really want to seek Potter out so soon after the awkward way he left earlier.

Draco places his letter on top of the ever-present stack of newspapers and eats his lunch slowly. He figures that he's put off seeing Agnes for long enough. By now, he thinks in amusement, she might be closer to the new patient than she is with him.

He wonders what the chances of her knowing about herbaria are. It's worth a try, he supposes.

He leaves his empty tray on his bedside table once he's finished eating, sliding his feet into his slippers and making his way to her cubicle. He mentally goes over how to sign hello, and though he's done it so much that he can do it perfectly, there's a nagging thought that he _could_ mess it up.

He tries not to think about it as he knocks on Agnes's curtains. There are voices on the other side, and Draco groans internally when he realizes it's the new patient and Gilderoy.

Well, he's been putting that meeting off too, so perhaps he deserves it.

The curtains are pulled aside, Agnes' fluffy face and brown eyes coming into view, and she lets out a loud, happy bark upon seeing him.

Draco flinches, tries to cover it up with a smile, and puts his hands over his ears. So much for the quiet greeting he was expecting.

"I know I've been a bit of a recluse the past few days, but I wanted to pop by and say hello," he says.

Agnes grins, stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter. He does, but stops when he sees an unfamiliar person sitting beside Agnes’s bed, dark hair and a gaunt face, eyeing him suspiciously. It’s clearly the new patient.

“Hello,” Draco greets cordially. The new patient turns his gaze away, not responding, and Gilderoy, who is sitting beside him, pipes up.

“Hello!” he chirps. “Basil, meet Draco. Draco, meet Basil.”

Basil doesn’t seem to be very receptive, still refusing to look at Draco, and he shifts uncomfortably under Gilderoy’s openly expectant look.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Draco says tightly. Unsurprisingly, Basil says nothing at all. Agnes seems to be wincing as she watches the exchange.

Gilderoy catches onto the tense atmosphere and stands slowly, gently taking Basil’s hand.

"Come on, Basil. Let's give Agnes some time with Draco. He's been quiet lately, you know," Gilderoy says, whispering the last sentence like Draco can't hear him. “I have my appointment soon, anyway.”

Gilderoy shuffles past Agnes’s curtains, Basil tagging along behind him with their hands still entwined. Basil pauses momentarily just outside the curtains to fix Draco with one last suspicious glance, before Gilderoy tugs him along.

Draco resists the urge to scowl. For whatever reason, it seems Basil has taken a dislike to Draco. It’s no problem for Draco, but it is a tad irritating.

He turns to Agnes, managing a smile. It’s a bit belated, but he finally signs hello, the movement of his hands coming naturally after practicing it so much.

Agnes’s eyes widen in excitement. She signs something in response, but it’s too quick for Draco to catch. She continues signing, and he’s not sure how to get her to stop without interrupting her, so he just lets her do it until she stops on her own.

She waits expectantly for his reply, and he flushes.

“I’m not that fast at it yet,” he says with a bashful smile.

Agnes rolls her eyes and, with a slight shake of her head, plops onto her bed with a sigh. He sits in the armchair that Gilderoy recently vacated, watching as Agnes reaches for her notepad and scratches something down.

 _You disappeared on me_ , it says. Draco feels a twinge of guilt, but knows that Agnes is more than likely saying it playfully, rather than actually meaning it.

“I got lost on the way here,” he jokes. Agnes breathes a laugh, but something about it doesn’t quite feel the same as usual, and the smile drops from his face.

Agnes pushes the notepad to him.

_You have a penchant for losing things, don’t you._

The corner’s of Draco’s lips tighten. He’s not sure if it’s just him having an off-day, but her words sting.

“Agnes,” he says uncomfortably. “Not—not today, please.”

Agnes gives him a remorseful look and scratches a response down.

_Sorry. I just haven’t been in a great mood lately. Nothing has been right since Potter took over as head healer._

“What do you mean?” Draco asks wearily. Agnes tenses, and he can practically feel her irritation grow, rolling off of her as she writes. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing so wrong.

_It’s just that Potter worked in an entirely different branch of healing magic before this, so is he even qualified to treat you and Gilderoy? Or to be a head healer? It doesn’t seem like it, and it’s been bothering me._

Draco flushes. It’s been _two days_ since Potter became part of the ward, which certainly isn’t enough time to judge anything. He feels an inexplicable need to defend Potter, pushing the unwanted image of Potter's reluctant smile out of his mind.

“Well, Soto wasn’t exactly doing a stellar job here, was she? She _did_ give me a wrong potion that could’ve poisoned me if I’d been any less lucky,” Draco points out, and Agnes lets out an angry huff, starting to write her response before Draco is finished speaking.

“Besides, Gilderoy can make actual improvements with the new mind healer Potter is setting him up with—and if Potter was biased, he wouldn’t even _treat_ Gilderoy.”

Agnes’s stare is hard when she roughly pushes her notepad back towards him a minute later, gripping her quill tightly.

_You’re being dramatic. It was an accident. It didn’t justify removing her from her position completely, and certainly not threatening to strip her of her license. He’s either heartless and unprofessional, or here for something other than healing people. But of course you don’t see any of this. _

_And I wasn’t going to mention it, but you know what? Whatever’s going on between you and him in your little nighttime wanderings, I don’t want to know._

Draco goes very still, heart freezing. He blinks at the words, rereads them, not wanting to believe what she’s suggesting.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asks, voice deathly soft.

Agnes looks concerned for all of a second before she scribbles a response, hand shaking now. From anger or worry, he doesn’t know.

_I’m not stupid. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the first time you left the ward, you came back with Potter trailing after you like a lost crup. And with the rest of your little escapades, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together._

Draco stares at her. Confusion and hurt and anger swirl in his stomach, pulling him a hundred different directions.

He stands slowly, easing himself out of the armchair. Agnes doesn’t look at him.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think this, or what ‘escapades’ you’re referring to, but thank you for letting me know how you feel. I hope Gilderoy and Basil are good company. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, words clipped, and immediately exits Agnes’s cubicle.

He scowls as he walks back to his bed, thinking over what Agnes said. He has no idea what he did to make her say something like that, and trying to remember what he said right before she got upset gets him nowhere.

The fact that he can’t even recall the details of the conversation shakes him up.

And worse, when he pushes back the curtains of his cubicle, Potter is sitting in the armchair and reading an old issue of the _Daily Prophet_ , looking like he owns the place. Legs crossed, chin in his hand as his finger fiddles with the corner of the page.

Draco hates how much he wants to keep staring.

“What’re you doing?” he snaps. Potter looks up from the newspaper to meet Draco’s gaze, raising his eyebrows.

“Snooping,” he says, straight-faced, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Very funny,” he replies sarcastically, as Potter stands and sets the newspaper aside. He fixes Draco with a level look, and Draco can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.

“Are you ready to meet the mind specialist?” Potter asks expectantly.

“Are you ready to tell me what spell you used on me?” Draco retorts.

Potter raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You’re actually bringing that up right now? You’re more stubborn than I thought.” He almost sounds impressed. “It was a calming spell.”

...A calming spell. Merlin. Draco could gape at Potter if he wasn’t aware of how stupid he’d look doing it.

“Why did you keep that to yourself this entire time, then?” he asks indignantly. “You made it seem like some gigantic secret.”

“Well, it was to you,” Potter shrugs, and Draco can’t really argue with Potter when he’s right, so he doesn’t say anything at all. “Let’s go, huh? They’re waiting.”

Potter sets a quick pace, and Draco follows closely, a bit startled when they walk past Potter’s office and into the hall.

“Where are we going?” he asks. Potter shoots an amused look over his shoulder.

“A separate examination room. It’s more private,” he explains, and Draco hums. He’s grateful for any semblance of privacy, even if it’s with a stranger.

Really, he’s just glad to be away from Agnes right now.

Potter leads him to one of the small rooms near the staircase that Draco noticed a few days before. The plaque beside the door is labelled 4B, he notes, and Potter knocks before he pushes the door open. Potter gestures for Draco to enter, and he does, nervously.

The first thing Draco notices is that the memory specialist is around Potter’s height—a bit taller than Draco—and wearing blue robes instead of lime green like Potter’s. Draco wonders if they’re from a different hospital.

The second thing he notices is that Potter’s eyes gleam when he sees them, and something about it makes his heart contract, but the specialist gives him a kind smile and Draco tries to shove his envy away.

“Malfoy, this is Healer Cassidy. They’re the best memory specialist in Britain,” Potter says. The admiration in his voice is obvious, even to Draco, and he ignores the spike of jealousy he feels at that. Cassidy blushes a bit, but turns their attention to Draco instead of replying to Potter.

“You can call me Bryn,” Cassidy, _Bryn_ , says with a bashful smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Draco—can I call you Draco?”

Draco nods and smiles slightly, liking them already, and Bryn continues: “Great. Healer Potter, if you will, I think Draco would prefer to do this one-on-one….”

Potter almost seems surprised by the request, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Draco _wouldn’t_ want him there. He seems to shake himself from it, before he reluctantly nods and gives a muttered _of course_ , ducking out of the examination room. He spares a glance at Draco, and if Draco didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a look of concern.

Bryn sits on the stool by the counter, gesturing for him to sit on the uncomfortable-looking examination bed. He complies, discovering that the bed isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, and smooths over his robes as he anticipates what they’re about to say.

“It’s important that you know what I can and can’t do for you,” they start. Their tone is even and professional, and Draco finds it reassuring. “The spell I’m going to use is called the Memory History charm _._ You can think of it sort of like a backwards memory charm.”

Draco’s heart leaps, but falls as Bryn continues: “It’s not going to undo the memory loss, but it does provide information about it, like reading the history of your memory. Does that make sense?”

He takes a moment to think over their words. He doesn’t understand how the spell _works_ , exactly, but he’s grateful to be walked through what it’ll do. That’s a welcome change.

“Yes, I think so. What kind of information will it tell you?” he asks.

“Well, let me clear up what it won’t do first. No spell can tell me who took your memories—it’s nearly impossible to decipher that. However, it _can_ tell me what charm took your memories, and the extent of the damage.”

Draco swallows roughly. He knew, of course, that he couldn’t have walked away unscathed, but to hear it said as _the_ damage, as if it’s inevitable, fills him with a distinct sense of dread.

“Is that making sense?” Bryn asks gently, and Draco only nods in response. “This spell may take a while to gather all of that data. Probably ten or so minutes. You may feel a warm sensation in your head and neck, and that is completely normal, but please let me know if you feel any pain, alright?”

Draco clears his throat. “Alright.”

Bryn’s eyes soften, and he wonders if his nervousness is evident in his voice. “Are you comfortable with me using this spell on you today?”

Draco looks at them in surprise. “You’re asking me?”

Bryn smiles and tilts their head. “Of course. I’m not going to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with. If you asked me not to, then we would skip to the next step of today’s meeting.”

He blinks at them. Thinks of how Potter likely lied about what spell he used on Draco the other day. Remembers how Soto never explained any of the charms she used. He wonders how he could have been comfortable with that, at all.

“Draco?” Bryn asks, smile turning down slightly in concern. “Is everything okay?”

Draco sucks in a breath and straightens up, pulling himself back to the moment. “Yes, it is. And I’m okay with you using the Memory History charm.”

Bryn grins. “Glad to hear it. It’s quite a show to see it in use, and I think you’ll like it. If you will, lay back on the table, and we can begin.”

Draco does so, shifting on the narrow bed to get comfortable. He doesn’t exactly know what they mean by a “show,” and he watches curiously. Bryn clears their throat and gives him a reassuring smile before they roll up their sleeves, raising their wand.

“ _Historiam Memoriae Converso_ …. _historiam… memoriae… converso…_ ” they begin, muttering the words under their breath over and over, repeatedly moving their wand in a complex hexagonal pattern. Their eyes are focused completely on a seemingly arbitrary part of the wall behind Draco, hardly blinking at all as they perform the spell.

Draco watches in fascination as thin threads of pulsing light emerge from the tip of the wand, red and yellow and blue. They dance around the examination room, darting around each other like animals might play, steadily tangling themselves with each other until they’re a single, knotted line. He understands fully now why they’re in a room separate from the ward.

As Bryn had said might happen, a pleasant warmth starts in the base of his neck and up through his hair as the threads collide, making the rest of him feel cold. The strangest sensation of heat spreads behind his eyes, like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t.

The lights start to pulse stronger and more frequently as Bryn’s muttering grows more confident. Draco has to cover his eyes as the blue light glows even brighter, until Bryn abruptly swipes their wand as if slicing the air—maybe cutting through the thread—and the line snaps into four, the pieces slowly turning a deep, dreadful black.

Draco gapes, stomach twisting at the sight. The pieces sink to the ground, puddles of black ooze on the floor, before they disappear completely.

Then, all is still, and Draco knows the spell is complete.

Bryn is sweating slightly, breath coming heavy, and the room is silent for a few minutes except for the sound of their breathing. Finally, they push their hair out of their face with a sigh, turning a small smile upon him. Draco can only imagine the kind of exertion it would take to use that spell, and he wonders how often they perform it.

“Quite the show, innit?” they say with a lopsided grin. There’s a gleam in their eye, bright and joyous, and Draco understands how they’ve come to be the best in their field. Surely, their passion must have contributed to that.

He swallows and sits up, rubbing his neck where the warmth hasn’t quite faded yet. “Yes, quite.”

Bryn hums and turns to the counter, tapping their wand on the small stack of papers, which separate themselves into two different stacks. They tuck their wand away and jot something down on their clipboard.

“The results of the test are going to take a few minutes to present on the page. I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on with your memories, but I’d like to have it confirmed first. Until then, I have a few questions to ask you, if you feel you can answer them.”

Draco gives a nod—feeling like he’s been doing a lot of nodding today—and Bryn clears their throat as they shift a bit on the stool to get more comfortable.

They reach for the small pile of papers behind them and flip through them, clicking their tongue absent-mindedly.

“Right, well to start, how have you been feeling since your admittance? Physically, mentally, emotionally... Whatever you are willing to share is whatever I am willing to hear,” Bryn says, and Draco feels himself relax. Bryn is nothing but professional, but not in a cold way that Draco would expect from them.

“Physically,” he starts, before he hesitates. Should he tell Bryn about his concerns with the potion and the brief two days of nausea—can he trust them? He’s afraid that he’s been too open, too naive. Decision made, he continues: “I’ve been tired. I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. Is that normal?”

Bryn hums with his words, a self-writing quill jotting something down on the paper.

“Yes, it’s very common in the open wards here. If I had any say in it, honestly, the wards would be made more private, with separate rooms for each patient,” Bryn says bitterly, expression like something sour is in their mouth. “Unfortunately, I don't have any say in that, but I can give you something to aid your sleep, if you would like.”

Draco smiles gratefully. “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Bryn returns his smile easily. The self-writing quill continues to write. “Is there anything else you want to share?”

Draco pauses. Emotionally—well, there’s a lot to unpack there, and the past few days of isolating himself have only worsened it. He’s not really keen on talking about it, but if he doesn’t say anything now, will he ever? He can’t imagine saying any of it to Agnes, Narcissa, or—Merlin forbid—Potter.

“I’ve been conflicted, truthfully. My mother sent one of my journals from when I was at Hogwarts. It was… distressing to know the kind of person I was,” he admits slowly, not meeting Bryn’s eye.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I can imagine how that must have felt. To know so little of the person you once were, and to only get to see something from a time in your life when you were likely just as confused as you are now,” Bryn says softly, and Draco finally meets their eye, folding his hands in his lap. He doesn’t reply.

“But I want you to know that people change, Draco. If it’s reassuring to know, you—at twenty nine—were much, much different than how you were as a teen. Whatever you read in your journal doesn’t show the person you grew to be. And it’s regretful that you haven’t been given that opportunity.”

Draco swallows roughly. Somehow, he hadn’t thought of that at all. But he can’t find it in himself to accept Bryn’s words right now. If he does, then he’ll start to wonder who he was at twenty-nine, and twenty-eight, and twenty-seven…. on and on.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I just don’t know if I want to remember a lot of the things I did and the things that happened to me.”

Bryn’s expression is one of understanding and kindness.

“I can’t say I would feel any differently in your shoes. And, because this is something a lot of my patients have struggled with, it doesn’t make you any less _Draco_. You understand?”

He sucks in a slow breath. In, out. Because, somehow, Bryn _understands_.

“Yes, I do,” he replies. Bryn’s smile is sympathetic.

“I was going to get to this later, but I’ll ask now. Would you like to view a few memories involving you?” Bryn asks.

Draco eyes widen. “Yes, of course. But how? And what do you mean by ‘view’?”

Bryn laughs easily and takes a small velvet pouch out of their pocket. From it, they pull a vial full of a swirling, luminescent silver substance.

“This is what a memory looks like in its physical form. It’s not very complicated to remove a memory, but once you do, it allows other people to watch it exactly as it was experienced. A magical instrument called a pensieve will make it so we can watch the memory.”

Draco stares at them in amazement. That’s _possible_?

 _Magic_. What a wonderful thing.

“Whose memories are they?” he asks, and Bryn tries in vain to hide their small smile.

“Healer Potter. He was kind enough to extract a few memories for our viewing today.” Draco’s excitement dims, and he tenses at the thought of viewing a memory of _Potter’s_. Nothing good could be in them, not involving Draco.

Bryn seems to catch onto his unease, and adds: “I’ve watched them myself. There’s nothing, uh, too disagreeable. I think you would be interested in seeing them, actually, given your concern about what you read in the journal.”

Draco is about to answer, before the tip of Bryn's wand lights and blinks, and their attention is turned to the clipboard.

"That'll be the results," Bryn explains. They look over the few pages, humming in understanding occasionally at whatever they're reading.

Draco waits nervously, smoothing his robes. Things didn't exactly seem _good_ when Bryn used the Memory History spell.

“Well, Draco, I have good news and I have bad news, and they’re kind of contradictory. You ready to hear this?” Bryn asks.

Draco swallows roughly and mutters his agreement. Steels himself as Bryn brushes their dark hair from their eyes and turns their clipboard around to show Draco.

They point to a graph near the bottom of the page with their wand. The graph is labelled with strange symbols, numbers, and filled by multi-colored lines—red, blue, and yellow, like the lights from the spell. Bryn taps their wand to the page, and the lines start to move.

As Draco watches, the blue and red begin to grow exponentially from the start, the yellow hovering near the bottom, until suddenly, the blue drops down to zero and the yellow shoots up. The red drops drastically, but not entirely. Draco’s chest tightens as a black, spiky dot appears where the blue line peaked.

“Each of those lines represent different parts of your memory. The blue is what we want to focus on—it shows the growth in memories you’ve retained. Where it dropped back down is where your memories were taken. Make sense?” Bryn explains. Draco nods, the knot in his chest tightening further with their words, and they continue:

“In this instance, the black dot is an indicator of what kind of spell was used on you. This memory charm is known as the ‘Repealed Obliviate,’ and it’s usually completely reversible.”

Draco’s eyes widen, and Bryn pauses a moment to let the words sink in.

It’s _reversible_. He swallows against the lump in his throat, lips pulled into a frown. He’s still not sure he wants his memories, even if there’s a chance he can have them, but how could he say no to that?

“What’s the bad news?” he asks hesitantly. Bryn’s expression turns sympathetic. They put the chart aside and lean forward ever-so-slightly, as if wanting to reach out to Draco. The dread he’s been feeling since the beginning of the meeting peaks.

“I’m afraid that there’s little-to-no hope of regaining anything. The problem lies with the condition your brain is in. It’s very likely that you’ve undergone prolonged exposure to ill-intending magic. It’s caused permanent damage that will make it nearly impossible to reverse the charm. I’m truly sorry, Draco,” Bryn says, voice solemn.

 _Oh_ …

Draco clenches his fists in his robes and turns his gaze away from Bryn.

So it’s permanent brain damage, then. Caused by some unknown exposure to negative magic, that could’ve happened at any point in his life, and he has no idea when. Whether it’s from the war, or Azkaban, or the Aurors—he’ll never know.

“It’s okay. I didn’t have my hopes up,” he replies softly, voice breaking and betraying his emotions.

“Draco,” Bryn starts gently. “What you’re feeling is completely understandable, and valid. Whether or not you’d hoped to regain your memories, or if you’d never wanted them at all, it’s difficult to have that option stripped from you.”

Draco bites his lip, still not wanting to look at them, but nods shakily.

“Yes. You’re right.”

Bryn sighs softly.

“If you’d like and are comfortable to, we can continue the meeting as planned. It may not spark any memories like we thought, but it can still be useful,” they say, an encouraging note in their voice.

He wants to say no, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he agrees.

Minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of a shallow basin, filled with a strange, water-like substance. Bryn uncorks the glass vial of Potter's memories and empties it in the water. He expects it to diffuse, but it remains separate from the liquid in the basin.

Bryn quickly walks him through what viewing the memory will be like and what he’ll have to do to view them. Draco shifts uneasily at the thought of pressing his face into the liquid for a prolonged period of time.

“I’ll be there the entire time. And remember, we can’t be hurt, seen, or heard. We’re only spectating. However, if you need to for any reason, we can leave the pensieve,” Bryn continues.

Draco thinks that he probably won’t leave the memories for anything, even if they are completely horrible, but keeps the thought to himself.

“Ready? Let’s go together, on three.”

He steps up to the basin on Bryn’s count, leaning over and slowly pressing his face into the pensieve when Bryn reaches three. He instinctively squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, even though he knows he doesn’t need to.

Draco opens his eyes to grey. He blinks. Spins in place, looking in every direction.

“The memory hasn’t formed yet,” Bryn says from beside him. Their voice sounds strange. “It will soon.”

Moments later, a storefront emerges from the fog, a cobblestone road forming their feet, the world bursting with color. Draco gapes. Again, all he can think is _magic_.

He focuses on the memory. In the shop window are a variety of robes, ranging from elaborate, elegantly-designed formal robes to casual everyday wear. The wooden sign hung above the door reads “Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.” People bustle about; the noise and colors and voices overwhelming.

Despite it, Draco’s eyes immediately find Potter. He couldn’t be any older than eleven. He’s short and scrawny, with his mop of messy black hair and hand-me-downs, and he’s entering Madam Malkin’s with a nervous expression. Draco glances at Bryn, and they give him a small, encouraging nod.

He follows Potter into Madam Malkin’s, Bryn right behind him. His breath catches at the sight of a child who is unmistakably himself, standing with his arms outstretched as sewing tape measures zip around his torso.

The short witch working with memory-Draco gives Potter a smile and tells him she’ll be with him in a minute.

“Hullo, Hogwarts too?” memory-Draco asks. Potter startles, and turns his attention to memory-Draco.

“Yes,” he replies.

Draco frowns. This close, he can see just how thin Potter is under his hand-me-downs, to the point that it’s concerning, and he’s very nervous. It makes Draco’s stomach turn over; he has of course read mentions about Potter’s childhood in _The Prophet_ , but it’s different to actually see the effects of it.

And, on top of it, it’s difficult to reconcile the Potter he knows—the healer, and the war hero—with this younger self.

Memory-Draco continues to talk at Potter. Draco doesn’t even hear the words, eyes caught on the differences in their expressions—Potter’s, growing increasingly indignant and disgusted, and memory-Draco’s, with a permanent curl of his lip and narrowed eyes.

Memory-Draco asks for Potter’s surname, and Potter doesn’t get to reply before the world dissolves around them, fading into grey haze.

Draco glances at Bryn nervously, anxiety tightening his chest with the disappearance of the ground, and Bryn gives him another comforting smile.

“I’m right here,” they say, and Draco nods, mostly to himself. “Remember, we’re only in a pensieve.”

Another scene forms just as quickly as the previous one vanished.

They’re standing in a courtyard, a castle towering over them and the sun just beginning to rise. Rubble and debris are scattered across the space. Dust is falling. A ring of school-aged teens stand in a half-circle, bloodied and covered in dirt and sweat. A redheaded girl is sobbing, but the sound can’t be heard. Everything is muffled.

The rest of the students’ eyes are red-rimmed, expressions grim and tear-streaked and hopeless. Draco doesn’t see himself among them.

And across from them, standing in the center of a long line of darkly dressed wixes, is a tall, pale wizard, eyes glowing red and thin lips stretched into a terrifying smile.

Draco’s stomach turns over. He has to turn his gaze away, unable to stand the sight of that wizard. He knows the only person that can be is Lord Voldemort, despite the fact that there weren’t any pictures of him in the _Prophet_ articles he read.

He understands now why there weren’t.

It’s then that Draco finds Potter—in the arms of an impossibly large, hairy man—arms hanging limp. Draco lips tighten, and he can't look at Potter, either.

He reminds himself that Potter is alive and well, that this is just a memory.

“He beat you!” someone shouts, voice breaking, and the strange muffled quality over the courtyard shatters. The sound of the girl’s choked sobs reach Draco, then, and the sound makes his throat tighten.

Voldemort’s high-pitched, airy voice echoes in the courtyard, sending Draco’s skin crawling: “Harry Potter is dead, and though you have fought valiantly, it was in vain. Join us now, and no blood will be spilled. I do not wish to fight.”

There’s a tense silence for a long moment, before someone steps forward. Draco’s eyes snap to a blond boy no older than seventeen, his steps crunching in the rubble. He’s wearing a battered and torn hat, face scarred and bloody. There’s steel in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw, and Draco’s lips tighten.

Voldemort eyes him, expression turning incredulous.

“Is this all?” he asks lightly. His Death Eaters laugh, loud and cruel, and the students begin to shift uneasily. The boy’s stare hardens as he glances over his shoulder, and Draco almost thinks he nods to someone. “Longbottom, I presume?”

“Right,” the boy says, and Draco’s stomach flips when his lip curls and he spits, “And I’ll join you when Hell freezes over.”

Voldemort’s expression turns venomous, and suddenly the hat upon the boy’s head is on fire. He drops to the ground with a shout, the other students screaming his name, before he pulls a _sword_ from the flaming hat—and everything happens so quickly and at the same time that Draco almost doesn’t see Potter roll from the giant man’s arms.

His heart skips a beat. He finally sees himself. Memory-Draco breaks from the Death Eaters, the first to notice Potter. He runs to Potter’s side and throws him a wand, shouts his name, and then the world descends to chaos.

Spells and hexes are cast left and right, and Draco flinches as a few pass through him, but he can’t tear his eyes from the sight of Memory-Draco. His face is tear-streaked and terrified, and despite it, is fighting his own people with Potter at his side.

The scene dissolves into grey before he’s ready, the sight of himself standing alongside Potter turning to nothingness, and reforms quickly in the familiar colors of cream and light blue. He’s still reeling, heart pounding—he fought with _Potter’s side_ —and blinks at the new memory.

It’s a waiting room in St. Mungo’s, and something terrible has happened. From every direction comes yelling and wails of pain, shouts of the healers for Dittany, murtlap, and sedatives. Aurors in various states of dress are appearing with loud _cracks_ all around them, startling Draco and sending his heart thundering. Some of them are carrying or supporting the injured, soot-covered people from whatever disaster has occurred.

But somehow, through the chaos, Draco is drawn to Potter, not much younger than he is now. His green eyes are sharp and blazing, managing to bark instructions to the other healers as they all turn to him for direction.

Draco swallows roughly. Potter looks for all the world like this is exactly where he belongs, level-headed in the face of the crisis, guiding the others through it.

Oddly, the sight of it makes Draco’s heart leap.

Another _crack_ , and an Auror appears almost directly at Potter’s side, an unconscious, redheaded child in his arms.

Draco blinks. _He_ is that Auror.

Memory-Draco’s expression is impossibly collected and haughty, his impeccable robes and hair starkly contrasting the other Aurors’. His cool gaze is impressive, Draco has to admit.

“Potter. This child was caught in the fire,” memory-Draco says, voice carrying over the shouts in the room. Potter turns his sharp gaze upon memory-Draco and the child, and his eyes widen. His composure breaks.

“Rose,” he says, voice heavy with worry, brow furrowed. His wand is in hand immediately, casting a myriad of diagnostic and healing charms on her—presumably someone he knows.

“Put her down here,” Potter finally says, gesturing to an empty chair beside him. Memory-Draco complies, placing her down gently as if afraid she'll break. “Thank you for helping her. For bringing her to me. Are—are Ron and George okay?”

Draco tilts his head in confusion. He figures that Ron and George must be related to Rose in some way, maybe caught in the fire.

Memory-Draco’s expression doesn’t soften, and neither does his voice, but Potter almost seems to take comfort in it.

“They’re fine. She slipped away from them. I have a feeling she ran back into the building to rescue the Pygmy Puffs,” memory-Draco says. Potter pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Of course she would. Well. Thank you for going after her. If you see Ron, please let him know she’s going to be okay. And—don’t wind up in here tonight, Malfoy. You don’t want to be stuck with me to treat your injuries.”

Memory-Draco smirks, but doesn’t reply. He disappears with a _crack_.

Draco stares at Potter, eyes wide, until the memory fades into nothingness. He recalls Potter’s words about them being stuck together, and it sends him reeling.

His chest feels—warm, and full, and damn, he has feelings for Potter, doesn’t he?

“Draco, the memories are over,” Bryn murmurs, stepping closer to him. “Time to go.”

He glances at them and licks his lips, hoping they didn’t see his blush. He closes his eyes as he imagines himself being pulled from the pensieve, and when he opens his eyes, he’s back in the examination room.

Bryn glances at the clock on the wall and purses their lips, but doesn’t comment on the time. Draco figures that they must be running behind.

“How do you feel?” Bryn asks, a note of concern in their voice. Draco tugs on the sleeve of his robes and looks away, because truthfully, his thoughts keep going back to Potter—his ever-unruly hair, his concern for Rose, the gleam in his eye as they fought side-by-side as teens…

“A lot better than I thought I would,” Draco says honestly, and Bryn smiles, albeit tiredly.

“I’m glad to hear that, Draco. I’m sorry to say I have to be going now, but we’ll meet again, alright?” they say sincerely.

Draco voices his agreement, and then Bryn walks with him back to the ward. They say goodbye and wish each other well—Draco going to his cubicle and Bryn to Potter’s office—and Draco finds himself watching the red glow of the sunset from the ward’s only window.

When the sun has gone down completely, he sits in bed and stares at his curtains, lost in thought. Tonight, oddly, none of the lights are turned on, so Draco sits in the darkness for a while and mourns—not for the first time—the loss of his memories.

They’re gone for good, now. There’s no chance of getting answers to half of the questions he had.

Draco’s mind wanders to Potter’s memories. They replay over and over in his head. The only thing he can even think is that, at least at one point, he fought against Voldemort, and likely his father as well.

It’s like Bryn said: he changed.

He bites his lip and thinks that he owes Potter a thank you.

Quick, light footsteps approach his cubicle, drawing Draco out of his thoughts and making his heart jump. He knows those footsteps.

The curtains are pushed open abruptly, Potter not even bothering to knock. Draco rolls his eyes. Of course he wouldn’t.

“Malfoy? Are you awake?” Potter whispers.

“No,” he says. Potter sighs audibly.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks. Draco can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck with that painfully awkward expression on his face, and he’s not sure whether he’s glad that he can’t see anything beyond Potter’s silhouette.

“Sure,” he answers. Potter shuts the curtains behind him and slides into the armchair easily. Draco raises his eyebrows—how Potter can see is a mystery.

Potter clears his throat.

“Healer Cassidy told me about the test results. I’m so sorry, Malfoy. Is there anything I can do to help?” Potter says. For the first time, there’s only a straightforward sincerity in his voice, and Draco doesn’t doubt that Potter is being honest.

He doesn’t say that Potter already _has_ helped, by offering his memories. That would just boost his ego.

“Yes. I think you should start calling me Draco,” he says softly, not quite sure where the words are coming from, picking at invisible lint on his clothes. There’s no use, really, when Potter can’t see him, but it’s for his own sake.

Potter is quiet for some time.

“Draco,” he finally says, like he’s trying it out, and Draco looks up sharply. “I can do that. Draco.”

The complicated mix of feelings he’s had about his name dissipate upon hearing it spoken by Potter—like he never needed to worry about whether he’s Draco _enough_. Perhaps Bryn’s comforting words helped get him there, and Potter was the last push. Because he says it like it’s a secret only the two of them are in on. And, Merlin if that’s not dramatic, but Draco can’t help it. Something about Potter seems to bring out that side of himself.

And if Draco is honest, he feels more like himself than ever when he’s around Potter. The realization leaves his cheeks hot, and he’s thankful that it’s nearly impossible to see given how dark it is.

They sit quietly for a long time after that. Gilderoy’s snores are loud, but not louder than Potter’s steady, easy breathing directly across from him. He realizes at some point that his breath has synced with Potter’s, and he has half a mind to make himself stop, but can’t be bothered.

Maybe it’s because it’s dark—everything seems to be said easier in the dark—or maybe it’s how intensely intimate their silence feels, but Draco finds himself wanting to fill the space with words.

“Have you ever seen the scars on my chest?” he murmurs. “I don’t know how I got them.”

Potter sucks in a breath.

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” he says. There’s something tight in his voice, and Draco worries he’s said something wrong, until Potter continues: “I’m the one who gave them to you.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up, but he’s less surprised than he probably should be.

“What happened?” he asks.

Potter sighs heavily. “We got into a fight in sixth year. I didn’t know what the spell did, but it had been labelled ‘for enemies.’ So I used it on you, and I’m sorry I did. I wish I hadn’t.”

Draco thinks about it, expecting to be angry and hurt, but finds it easy to accept that it happened. He’s not even upset about it, not really—maybe in a distant sort of way, but he’s preoccupied by the realization that he doesn’t like how apologies sound coming from Potter, especially not for things Draco can’t remember. “I think you’ve made up for it since.”

Potter snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Draco glares at him, even though he can’t see it. “You _have_. I’m not a liar.”

“Yeah? How,” Potter asks, and Draco sighs in frustration. _Why_ must Potter be so stubborn?

“You’re my healer, aren’t you? You volunteered your memories. You didn’t have to,” he points out. He thinks to himself that he’s only arguing because it’s Potter, but he knows he’s lying to himself.

“How did this turn into you comforting me?” Potter says with a shaky laugh.

In a moment of courage, foreign but not unwelcome, Draco reaches forward and seeks Potter’s hand out in the darkness. He finds it, and his heart pounds, and he turns it over so he can put his fingers between Potter’s.

His hands are sweaty, but so are Potter’s, and it’s not as nice as he expected. But at the same time, it’s _better_ because of it.

“What’re you doing?” Potter asks, voice shaking ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t pull his hand away. Draco absentmindedly rubs his thumb over Potter’s, wondering how they got so calloused.

“Trying to convey to you how I feel about this. Is it working?” Draco asks. Potter breathes a laugh.

“Yes, it is,” he murmurs. “I can feel how wrong you are through your fingertips.”

Draco snorts. “I highly doubt that. Your hands are too calloused to feel anything as light as _my_ fingertips.”

“Draco, I hate to break it to you, but your hands are so sweaty that it would be impossible for me not to feel them.”

Draco flushes, but breathes a laugh at it.

Potter falls silent, and it stretches between them. Draco continues to rub absent circles on the back of Potter’s hand.

Finally, Potter sighs: “Christ, Draco. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I’m your healer.”

Draco hums and moves like he’s going to pull away, and Potter’s grip tightens slightly. Draco laughs knowingly. “You’d have to let go of my hand in order to not be doing this, you know.”

“Fuck off,” Potter replies immediately, no heat behind it.

“I’m trying.” Draco says. He hears Potter’s sigh, and it sets him off laughing again, trying to stifle the sound with his free hand—until Potter is laughing too, and between the two of them, they could wake the entire ward.

Instead of leaving him uneasy, it only makes him smile.

Potter leaves shortly after, claiming he has paperwork to do, which Draco doesn’t believe one bit. Unfortunately, he can’t keep holding Potter’s hand forever, and he’s starting to grow tired.

Their goodnight is soft and awkward, but it leaves a warmth in Draco’s chest that he carries with him to sleep. His dreams that night are of walking to room 4B, of the potions storeroom and everything within, of herbaria and bubbling green poison antidotes.

It feels very strange, like it’s actually happening, but everything is hazy around the edges. His legs move of their own accord—he finds that he doesn’t quite care all that much—and carry him to just outside the door of the ward. He’s carrying too many vials to open the door, and begins to transfer them to one hand so he can go back to bed.

But just then—

“Help!” someone in the ward screams, the sound horrible and agonized and pleading, jolting Draco from sleep with a gasp.

He lurches, as if to sit up in bed, but when he opens his eyes, he finds himself exactly as he was in the dream: standing in the hall outside the Janus Thickey Ward. A handful of vials drop from his loose fist and shatter on the floor.

The screams go hoarse, no longer even words, before they’re gone completely. The potions from the broken vials mix and spread across the floor, until he’s standing in a small puddle, the acrid smell of it reaching his nose.

The pieces slowly start to come together. Draco’s stomach drops. His eyes begin to sting from the stench of the potions.

As he stands there, barely holding himself together, he’s distinctly aware of one thing:

His slippers are dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohoho what's this, they briefly held hands and now there's a CLIFFHANGER?! 😈 🙊


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